


The Thing On the Doorstep

by phantomwise (Harlecat)



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: 1930s, A Single Corpse, Alternate Origin Story (kinda), Character Death (Kinda), Eldritch(ish) Bill Cipher, Gen, Horror (of Lovecraft's variety), Implied Murder, Lovecraft AU, Mystery Trio, Other, Possession, Pre-show, Stanley + Fire Moments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2017-01-19
Packaged: 2018-08-17 00:18:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 35,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8123215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harlecat/pseuds/phantomwise
Summary: December, 1933. It had been some ten years since Stanley last laid eyes on his brother, before a cryptic message sent him on the first train to Oregon. Now he finds himself in the curious town of Gravity Falls, where no one seems capable of giving him a straight answer to any question he asks, least of all the one that looms largest on his mind: Can his brother be saved? His brother is at the very heart of a thick web, and Stanley intends to untangle it once and for all.An AU taking inspiration from Lovecraft's "The Thing On The Doorstep", additionally a slight rewriting of Stan and Ford's reunion.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> y'all have no idea how excited I am to be posting this, let's get right to it!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> enjoy this fic's official playlist: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL3plHgKghKM_DH4Fy4uJ442ncRYRuEHbE

**I.**

_“It is true that I have sent six bullets through the head of my best friend, and yet I hope to shew by this statement that I am not his murderer. At first I shall be called a madman- madder than the man I shot in his cell at the Arkham Sanitarium. Later some of my readers will weigh each statement, correlate it with the known facts, and ask themselves how I could have believed otherwise than as I did after facing the evidence of that horror- that thing on the doorstep._ ”

Howard Phillips Lovecraft, The Thing On The Doorstep

* * *

  **December, 1933.**

Stanley stood on the doorstep, shifting in an effort to keep out the cold. It had surprised him to find the iron gates open, but they had allowed his reluctant passage to the grand house’s entrance. Unfortunately, Stanley realized, having come so far left him no choice but to knock.

It had been some ten years since Stanley had last laid eyes on his brother, before a worrying letter from his mother and, as if that weren’t enough, a cryptic message from Stanford himself had sent him on the first train to Oregon. Judging by the paper in his hands, this was his brother’s address, though Stanley could not help but think the house looked strangely empty. It certainly seemed impressive- tall, ancient- but something about the dark windows and empty lawn struck Stanley as foreboding.

He told himself that it was just the snow and the temperature, and the house was sure to prove more comforting than chilling once Stanley was inside with his brother, possibly in front of a hearth or at a kitchen table, perhaps even with hot food in his stomach for a change. After all, this wasn’t the home of some monster. It was the home of his brother. His _twin_ brother.

Stanley willed his cold hands to rise, grasped the knocker, and rapped three times on the door.

He stood shivering for several moments before he knocked again. And once again, there was a definite failure on the house's inhabitants to open the door.

Stanley frowned, and pressed his ear to the door. The house felt strangely still, but he was sure he had heard a hushed voice and the rustle of movement inside.

“Hello?” he called out, stepping back. “Stanford?”

And for the third time, there was no answer.

He looked at the knocker. It was a startling gold, and the oddest thing Stanley had ever laid eyes on. Despite the darkness of the day and the shadow of the house, it seemed to shine. A bright and bulbous eye protruded from a twisted triangle, carved in what could only be the resemblance of flesh. The eye seemed to leer at him, and Stanley had the uncanny sense that it could not only see him, but was laughing at him.

He took another step back from the house, looking around. The lawn _was_ empty. It was, he realized, possible that his brother simply was not home. After all, as tough as times were, it would stand that someone with as stable a career as Ford would have a car. And, though Ford had always detested driving, it would still stand to further reason that if he were to go out, the car would go with him. He must have been out for a while, if the lawn had already been snowed over.

Stanley thought for a moment, and resolved to come back later. He turned and trekked back towards the tall iron gate, turning to look across the snowy lawn and up at the house.

Stanley blinked. Having distanced himself from the house, he now saw that it was not empty. There was a figure in an upstairs window, and the dim lighting from within had hidden them from view. Even now, he could only just make them out.

He looked up at them in shock. They had their face pressed to the window, but as Stanley watched, they pulled back, locking gazes with him.  It was clearly not his brother, but something in their eyes seemed familiar, as if the person staring at him through the window had recognized him. They pressed their slim hand to the window, and then slowly, began to rap on it. It was not a friendly gesture. Their face was cold, almost frightened. Their hand seemed to be begging the window to open. Stanley did not know what it meant, but it was clear that something was wrong.

He was unsure what to do. Stanley lifted his hand to wave.

At that instant, the person’s entire demeanor changed. Their face seemed to light up from within; their face seemed less afraid and more in a panic and frenzied, and somehow, delighted. They stood and knocked eagerly on the window, so hard that Stanley feared it would break.

It did not. Rather, the window burst open, and the person recoiled from the cold air, vanishing back into the room. They returned a moment later.

“Uh,” Stan cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hello there!”

The person grinned at him, and threw something at him. It soared through the air, and Stan ran forward to catch it.

They had thrown him a pair of glasses.

Stanley looked up. He was sure he had never seen this person before in his life. They lifted their hands up to their eyes, and cupped them in a circle, then pointed to him. They wanted him to put the glasses on.

Stanley did. They made things a little blurry.

The person pointed down toward the door, then slammed the window shut and disappeared from view. Not knowing what to do, Stan raced back to the door, grasped the monstrous triangle, and knocked.

Several moments passed, and then, the door opened.

The person from the window looked at him with wide and delighted eyes.

“Howdy,” Stan said, taking off the glasses. “Are these yours?”

Their smile vanished. They had the appearance, Stanley realized, of someone who had not set foot outside in a long time. Their skin was sickly, and their eyes shadowed. They were small in stature, very bony, and had long, dead-looking hair. When he looked at them, Stanley could not help but be reminded of a corpse.

“Keep them on,” they whispered. “They’ve mistaken you for him.”

“They?”

“Say nothing and follow me,” they finished. Their smile returned, and they opened the door fully. “Did anyone see you approaching? You weren’t followed?”

“Him?” Stanley repeated, then it hit him. Because he was wearing the glasses _they,_ surely referring to the home’s servants, had mistaken him for his twin brother.

He followed the person inside. They grabbed his wrist and pulled him forward into a dimly lit hall.

“Come back upstairs,” they said harshly, and the hairs on the back of Stan’s neck rose.

“Hang on-”

“Come _on,_ ” they insisted, tugging him further down the hall. Despite their small size, they were definitely powerful, and they had him at the base of a staircase.

“Listen,” Stan said. “This is all a little-”

“Strange?” They turned to him. “I know it is. But you’ll have to trust me, Stanley. This might be my only chance.”

Stan frowned. “How do you know my name?”

They did not seem to hear, instead taking advantage of his surprise to haul him up the staircase and into an even darker hallway. “Truly, I’m sorry that we have to convene in such circumstances. I’d written to you out of desperation, but- before today I’d begun to think it was hopeless, that I’d sent you my final words. But you’re _here,_ Stanley! You’re here!”

Stanley pulled his hand back as the person came to a stop. “Just a minute. I don’t understand a single word you just said. _You_ wrote me? But who are you?”

“I can’t explain it all now.” They shook their head. “There’s too much to say, and I doubt you’d understand it. But listen. I have convinced them that I am _him._ Before I opened the door, they handed over the key to my confinement.”

“They? Your _confinement?”_

They reached into their coat, and pulled out a heavy key. “So here is what must be done. He cannot hold sway over me forever- all things have their breaking point. But for now, when he is out of this body, you will lock me into my room. Is that understood?”

“No! It’s not! Who are you?”

“His grip on my body will start to slip soon. It always does. I’m sorry, Stanley, I wish we could have spoken more, but there simply isn’t time.” They turned and opened the door, then lowered their voice. “Take this key and lock the door behind me. Then you are to storm out of the house. Perhaps even knock something over. Swear. If anyone tries to speak to you, _hit them._ ”

“ _Hit_ them?!”

“Or threaten them, at least. Then, once the front door has shut behind you, drop the key and _run.”_ They shoved the key into his free hand, then stepped into the room.

“No, _wait,”_ Stanley stuck out his foot to keep the door from closing. “Nothing you’ve said has cleared any of this up! I don’t have any clue who you are. How do you know my brother? And what do you mean, _you_ wrote this letter?” Stanley lifted up the paper, still clutched in his hand, that had called him here.

“I wrote it,” they said. “Because I needed your help.”

“It’s in my brother’s hand.”

“Yes.”

“It’s signed my brother’s name.”

“Of all the times for you to ask questions, you wait till _now?_ I can’t explain it now, Stanley! You wouldn’t even believe any of it.”

“Well, I’m not just gonna lock some random stranger in a door then _leave._ I thought I was here to help my _brother_ , and I want an explanation.”

The person pulled the door shut, glancing around. “You _are_ here to help me. I can’t explain it now, I _can’t!_ There’s no time!”

“Here to help _you?”_

“Your brother, I mean! I can- I can give you an address.” They reached forward to snatch Stanley's letter, produced a pen from within their coat, and began to write. “It shouldn’t be hard to find, there’s an old house down by the lake. There are signs out front. You’ll know it when you see it. It belongs to a good friend of your brother’s, someone he trusts as much as you. Tell him who you are and he will tell you what he can. If all goes well, your brother will be with you shortly.” They pushed it back into Stanley’s hands. “I’m sorry, Stanley, I mean it. I hate to have dragged you into this. If you move quickly, then you should be able to stay out of it for good.”

“That’s it?”

“I’m _sorry,”_ they said once more, locking eyes with him. Something in them seemed to crack. “I wish things didn’t have to be this way. And truly, I’m sorry that this has to be so rushed. I’d begun to think I would never be released from this awful imprisonment. I’d started to fear my only freedom would be my own demise. But Stanley, _Stanley_ , you’ve come, and together, we’ll fix this.”

“Uh huh.”

They slammed the door shut.

 _“Lock it!”_ They called from within. “Leave it on the doorstep, outside! Promise me!”

“Right, right.” Stanley locked the door.

“Promise me!”

“I promise I’ll leave it outside.”

“Now go! And remember to yell!”

Stanley tucked his paper into his jacket. Then, clutching the key, he stomped down the hallway.

“Aargh!” He shouted. “I’m angry!”

He hurried down the staircase. A man, short and balding, stood at the base of the stairs.

“I know this was an inconvenience-”

What had they said? Threaten them? Hit them?

“This is all _your_ fault!” Stanley shouted, and looked around. He found a vase balanced on a nearby table, and knocked it over. “I’m angry! And you’ll hear more of it when I get back, if you all don’t, uh- stay out of my way!”

Stanley raced for the door, and glared at the man before he slammed it.

This definitely had not been how he’d expected his visit to go.

Stanley glanced down, and found what seemed to be a good resting spot for the key. He hurried off the doorstep, and looked up at the window. The person had returned, and waved to him. Stanley took off the glasses and blinked. The dark home and the lenses had made his head hurt. Stanley waved back. The person smiled and then, once again, their face changed.

They pointed at the gate. _“Go,”_ they mouthed.

Stanley backed up. Their face contorted, twisted, and the smile became a scowl, and they were screaming at someone on the other side of the door. Stanley turned and ran.

* * *

_“Some people know things about the universe that nobody ought to know, and can do things that nobody ought to be able to do.”_

* * *

Stanley’s brother had always been something of a genius. At seven he had begun to show interest in more than the world had to offer, and begun to write strange and sombre verses. He had a clear desire to learn more about the morbid and fantastic nature of things, and above all, to understand the workings of the planet around them. His unhealthy nature, a tendency for illnesses and, it was likely, his curious birth defect- an extra finger on each hand- had led their parents to keep him closely chained to their side. As such, Stanford had always been the secretive type, preferring books to people. Stanley had been his sole confidant until he had been dispelled from their home. And though his mother had sent him many letters describing Stanford’s success as a scientist, researcher, and writer, she had never mentioned much about his social life. Stanley had assumed there simply wasn’t much to discuss. Stanford would not bring up his friends in a letter to his mother, and it was unlikely that he would find time for people outside of work.

He had, he realized, been sorely mistaken.

The words on the back of the letter confirmed it. He was staring at the proof itself, holding it in his hands. If Stanley’s curious informant was to be believe, Stanford had found a person he trusted as much as Stanley. Perhaps, given the very presence of the informant, he had found more than one.

It was shocking.

Nothing else about Stanford had surprised Stanley. His path through universities and promotions. His scientific papers, while weird, were to be expected of him, as were his dabblings in literature and fiction. But the fact that Stanford had several trusted colleagues, perhaps even acquaintances, maybe even _friends_ made him feel sort of sick. His stomach curl up and boil at the thought of it, but he wasn’t sure why.

His colleague seemed to be named Fiddleford McGucket. Though Stanley was sure he had never heard the name before, he thought it might have been mentioned in some paper his mother had forwarded, and perhaps he had simply failed to read it. However, his failure to recognize the name only unnerved him further. While Stanford had always kept to himself, he would have liked it if he his mother had perhaps mentioned this McGucket before. This whole setup was baffling, and Stanley really was helpless to understand it.

The thing that really got him though was the address. Looking at it made his heart sink to the bottom of his stomach, and filled him with a sort of dread he could not even begin to decipher. It had been one thing that the strange person he’d met had claimed to have written the letter that was clearly recognizable as his brother’s, but the address was something else. It was strange. It was unearthly.

Stanley turned over the letter to confirm it, rereading the letter he’d thought was Stanford’s, and then rereading the address.

He had no doubt about it. The person, without second thought, without even looking down, had written it in his brother’s hand.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted an aesthetic thing for this on my blog, gravitygals, check the ttotd tag!

**II.**

* * *

 Of all the places Stanford could have settled, it seemed fitting that he’d picked Gravity Falls. The town carried a sense of detachment that reminded Stanley of his brother. It seemed to be entirely free of all contact from the cities Stanley had travelled through to get here. The train he had taken west had been stuffed full of the homeless and the unemployed, most of them hoping the rumors about California were true- Stanley already knew they weren’t- and the rest of Oregon had been much the same. Meanwhile, back in the plains, crops had begun to come up short and rivers were starting to shrink, and as far as Stanley had heard, the shops in New Jersey were hardly faring better than the rest of the nation. Gravity Falls, though, didn’t seem to be suffering the same decline as the rest of the world. And what’s more, the whole town had a curious aura.

Perhaps it had been the signs of this difference, unnoticed at first by Stan, that made it so off-putting. The absence of beggars or would-be vendors was, he assured himself, the reason the streets felt so empty. The town was not empty though- people were walking about. Then surely it was their somber attitude and failure to make eye contact that created the atmosphere. Or maybe, Stan thought when a woman beamed and waved through the window she was cleaning, the apparent economic stability just gave it an air of detachment. The town was quiet, and seemed far away from anywhere else Stan had been. Something it had in common with Stanford. He could tell, though, that there was more beneath the surface. The town felt heavy, the air almost too thick to breathe, and the sky seemed dark. He had, of course, been to worse places. Innsmouth, for starters, which he’d passed through on the way here. That town, however, had seemed to be in a similar state to the rest of the nation, if not worse. Innsmouth had been the first town he’d seen in quite some time where houses actually stood empty and decaying, and it hadn’t given him any hope for Stanford’s situation. And the harsh looks from the townsfolk there certainly hadn’t given him any hope of a warm welcome here.

However, if his life had any shred of justice- it normally didn’t- he would get a warm welcome and then some.

A bell on the door jingled as Stan opened the door to the nicest diner he’d set foot in for some time. It was falling apart a bit, but he'd certainly seen worse. The whole place was flooded with the scent of pie.

“Uh, hey,” Stan cleared his throat, approaching the woman who’d smiled at him. She was alright to look at and seemed sweet.

She moved on from cleaning the window to a table. “Howdy, mister. Have I seen you somewhere before?”

Stan laughed. “Doubt it, I’d remember a pretty face like yours.”

She frowned thoughtfully. “You sure? Cause I _swear,_ you really look familiar!”

Stan shrugged. “Eh, my brother lives in town, you might know  _him._ I just popped over to visit him, so it’s my first time here.”

“ _Really?_ ” She grinned. “You seen all the sights yet?”

Stan wasn't really what sights a town this small had to offer, but he played along. “I'm hoping to today. Matter of fact I’m headed to the lake right now, but someone suggested I stop by the best diner in town first, so,” Stan winked. “Here I am.”

“That’s us alright,” she beamed. “Greasy’s Diner.”

The notion that anyone would name an eatery _greasy_ struck Stan as a little funny, but he held his tongue. “You wouldn't happen to know who the owner is?”

She finished off the table, tossing the rag over her shoulder and proudly putting his hands on her hips. “You're looking at her.”

“You're joking me,” Stan laughed. “That a lot of work?”

“Loads.” She flicked him playfully with her rag, then headed over to the counter. Stan followed, examining the pies on display. They looked heavenly.

“Cute _and_ talented.” Stan leaned onto the counter, resting his chin in his hand. “I don't think I caught your name, darlin’.”

“Cause I didn’t throw it. I’m Susan,” she told him cheerfully. “And you?”

“Name’s Stanley.” Stan offered his hand, and she shook it.

“Can I get you anything, handsome?”

Stan sighed. “I was hoping to snag a slice of hot pie before I made the trek down to the lake, but-” he hit himself on the forehead. “I'm the biggest dunce you'll ever meet. Second I got on the train to come up here, I realized my wallet was sitting at home.” This was a lie on all accounts. Not only did Stan not have a home, he did not have a wallet. His thought the second he climbed onto his train was how to best hide from any authorities that were busting stowaways. Stan winked at Susan once more. “Trip wasn't a waste of time, though. Got to meet a pretty lady out of it.” He straightened. “You'll be seeing me again, and you can count on that, Sue.”

“That's a real shame.” Susan flushed. “You know what? Take a slice, on the house.”

“Aw, I couldn't.”

“Course you can!”

Stan couldn't help but grin. “Thanks, Sue, you're a real treat. I’ll make it up to you some time.”

Susan waved him off. “Don't you worry about a thing, mister. Just sit down and I'll fix you up a coffee, you look exhausted.”

Stan sat down obediently at the counter. He watched as Susan cut and plated him a generous slice of pie.

“Tuck in,” she told him, setting it down, and he didn't wait to do so. Stan couldn't remember the last time he'd had pie, let alone _warm_ pie, and shoveled it into his mouth. Susan poured him a cup of coffee.

“You said your brother lives in town, Stan?” Stan nodded, grabbing his napkin to wipe his mouth. “Think I know him?”

“Susan, baby, this is the best pie I’ve had this decade.” Stan picked up his cup of coffee. “Wouldn't be surprised if you didn’t. He’s never been too social.”

Susan furrowed her brow. “I musta seen him around somewhere. Oh!” she snapped her fingers. “Does he live at that big old house in the woods? The one with the writing?”

Stan nodded. “Sounds like him. Goes by Stan _ford_ , he's real into all that science stuff.”

Susan shuddered. “I’ll say. Mrs. Cutebiker, down that way-” she pointed at a table on the far end of the diner, where a woman was eating with her son. “She used to walk about in those parts of the woods, till she heard strange sounds coming from that house. Says she saw some weird light, hasn't gone back since. I don't really believe her, she’s easily startled. He used to come into town for groceries and such but it's been a long time since anyone’s seen him. Matter of fact, the Valentinos had started to think he might be dead and were getting pretty excited.”

Stan set down his coffee. “ _Excited_?”

Susan laughed. “That probably sounded real strange, huh? Don't worry, they're just the local funeral directors. But you know, that's not the only rumor that was going around.”

“Really?”

“Let’s see. Dan Corduroy, that's him over there-” Susan pointed and Stan shot a look at a man twice his size. “He heard that he’d gotten hitched.”

“Hitched?”

“Something like that, anyway. See, some funny people showed up in town who said they worked for him.” Stan thought back to the man he’d threatened at his brother's house, and the figure from the window. Had they been among those funny people? “Woulda made sense, since I heard he made some kinda powerful friend with someone from Innsmouth a few towns over. Most people don't like Innsmouth, but I say it's just a town! Besides, there’s nowhere else close enough to ship us fresh fish. Oh, I also heard he got real sick from Bud Gleeful. And Ma and Pa, they run the corner store, heard that he’d skipped town after pulling some big crime or something. Matter of fact, the sheriff told me a few days ago that the rumors were getting so bad they went up to the house to chat with him.”

“Really?” Stan finished the rest of his coffee. He had seen some of Innsmouth on his way through Oregon, and its inhabitants had hardly seemed friendly. Then again, Ford himself wasn’t too friendly either. “Susan, that is one great cup of coffee. I'll be honest, I still haven't seen my brother. On my way right now. I actually came up here cause I was a little worried myself. Did the sheriff tell you anything else?”

“Sorry, Stan, but he didn't. Just said he seemed kinda twitchy at first, then he slammed the door on him. I wouldn't be worried, though.” She smiled warmly. “Everyone's probably just worked up on account of what his assistant said.”

Stan paused mid-bite, closing his mouth and lowering his fork. “What’d he say?”

“You hadn't heard? They had some big fallout. Something about his work and some other pal of his. He quit whatever project they were working on, then he dropped him off in the middle of town-”

“Dropped him off?”

“Yeah, he was driving. He was spitting mad and screaming in the middle of the freezing night. He’s always been a little off his rocker, though, to tell you the truth. He moved out after that. Toby, he's a reporter round here, asked him about it while back, when the rumors were getting real bad, and- gosh, I can't remember what he said, just that it was strange. If you want I'll see if I can dig up the newspaper.”

“That'd be great.” Stan finished off his last bite of pie. “Susan, I can't even begin to thank you for this de _lic_ ious pie. This really is the best diner in town. You did me a real solid today.”

Susan smiled, blushing. “It's not trouble, just drop in sometime soon! We can chat some more.”

“I'd like that a lot.” Stan set down his fork. “You take care.”

“You too, mister!”

Stan hopped off of his chair and headed for the door, waving to Susan before stepping out into the cold. Christ, that woman could talk. He didn't need to know about the local funeral directors or whether or not his brother was married. He'd gotten some decent information and a hot slice of pie out of her, though, and wouldn't mind some more. She really did seem sweet.

Stan pulled the letter back out to check the address. The mysterious figure from the house had told him Ford trusted this guy, but Stan wasn't so sure. From what Susan had said, they didn't seem to get along. Hopefully, though, he could help him to make sense of what was going on.

* * *

 Stanley had hoped for a more welcoming house, but Fiddleford McGucket’s doorstep was every bit as uninviting as his brother’s. The house itself was not terribly large, only a short two stories and not very wide, but it was surrounded on all sides by a tall fence. There had been a sign warning him to keep out, but Stanley knew there was no hope of Fiddleford hearing him from inside from so far away, and he knew how to pick a lock. When he slipped through the gate, a crow took off from the fence, as if to confirm there was something dark about the home. Stan trudged up to the door, leaving fresh tracks in the snow, and was quite frankly, put off. The owner had painted some kind of occult symbol over the door, resembling an eye with an X over it. The only inviting thing about the house was the trail of smoke coming out of the chimney.

Stan knocked on the door and stood, shivering for a moment. There was a crash behind him. He started and turned, but it was only a raccoon darting beneath the porch.

“Someone there?” a voice called from inside. This McGucket had a terribly thick southern drawl. “Who’s that?”

Stan wasn't sure how to answer. The brother of the guy you hate? Someone who needs information? In the end, he finally settled for “Stanley?”

He heard shuffling inside, then a lock, and the chained door slid open a few inches. A man much shorter than him appeared, squinting at him through spectacles. His eyes widened with shock. Stan jumped backward, realizing that he had some kind of pistol in his hands.

“Just a minute,” the man snapped, shutting the door. Stanley heard more unlocking, and then the door opened. “Please, come inside.”

The pistol had vanished. Stanley swallowed, but forced himself to step inside. At least it was warm. Stan wiped his nose. “Uh, thanks.”

“I'll put on a pot of tea,” the man said, turning on his heel. He gestured to the room before them, some kind of parlor. “Take a seat,” he instructed, before vanishing into what could only be a kitchen. Stanley immediately scowled. He had spent enough time on the road and streets to know when people thought they were better than him because they had things like houses or places to sit. They didn't always mean harm, but he could tell when they pitied or looked down on him. Then again, maybe he would have been more forgiving if this fellow hadn’t pulled a gun on him a few moments prior.

Stanley sat down on the large couch, thankful, at least, for the fire in the hearth. “Are you Fiddleford McGucket?” he called, pulling out his letter.

“Sure am.” The man returned from the kitchen with a tray and set it on his coffee table before collapsing into an arm chair opposite Stan. “And I take it you’re Stanley Pines?”

“Good guess.”

Fiddleford leaned forward to pour him a cup of tea. “You want sugar with that?”

“Sure, why not?”

Fiddleford passed him a cup. “Drink up or you'll catch cold.” He had a judgemental way of peering at him through his glasses that made Stan feel as if he were looking down his nose at him, in spite of their height differences. Perhaps he and Ford  _had_ gotten along.

Stan drank his tea in silence, not sure where to start. Fiddleford seemed rather nervous, fidgeting with his collar and picking at a thread on his cuffs. He couldn't seem to make eye contact with Stan now that he had passed his judgment on him.

“Is it good?” Fiddleford finally asked, looking a little desperate.

Stan set down his cup. “Yeah, that really hit the spot, thanks.”

“Oh, good,” Fiddleford said, not seeming to care. His eyes direction and the infliction of his voice indicated that he was distracted.

“I guess you're wondering why I'm here?”

Fiddleford nodded, clearly relieved. “Yes, that's right.”

“You could say I'm looking for answers. See, I got this letter.” Stan held up the letter his brother had written him, and Fiddleford immediately leaned forward to snatch it. He scanned it quickly, devouring its contents. “Uh, alright. Well, I came to see what the trouble was and visited my brother's address earlier today but the response was rather… odd.”

Fiddleford looked up, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. All traces of disrespect had left his face. “Ah. So you’re in the dark, then?”

Stanley nodded. “Yep. Once I finally got inside, this weird fella- I don't even know. _They_ claimed to have written me. Then they had me steal a key and told me to come here.”

Fiddleford flipped the letter over. He paled, seeing his own address, then turned the page back over. “Steal a key?” he repeated.

“Something like that.”

“Did you watch them write this?” Fiddleford asked, tapping the paper. Stan nodded, and Fiddleford grinned. “We may yet have hope. Don't you worry, I can help you make sense of it all, you'll just have to pardon me if I sound like a lunatic. It's a strange tale. You wouldn't care for some hot soup first?”

“Normally I'd say yes, but I just had a great slice of pie and I'm pretty damn curious.”

Fiddleford nodded. “Alright then. Just try and wait till I'm done, and take what I'm saying seriously.”

“I've got a few questions I’d like answered,” Stanley told him, reclining on the couch. “I'd also like to make sense of how the hell you even know Ford, and what this news article I heard about was.”

“In due time, trust me.” Fiddleford scratched his chin thoughtfully. “But where do I even begin?”

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

**III.**

* * *

 “You’ll forgive me, I hope, if my story seems strange. It’s all far too bizarre for even myself to comprehend sometimes. And what’s more, I hope you will understand if some of the finer details are lost to me. Some of it, you see, some of those darker things are buried too far for me to reach.” Fiddleford picked up his cup of tea. “I met your brother in school,” he told Stanley. “We had several classes together and a variety of shared interests, so we were a natural fit. Among those interests was a sort of passion for scientific strangeness. Personally, I was more invested in technology, but Stanford was fascinated by deviation and, by extension, the occult. You might know that we worked together on various papers and experiments.”

“I may have read some.”

Fiddleford nodded. “My folks opened up a boarding house when the market crashed, and he stayed with us for awhile, more for comfort, I think, than anything- he didn't seem to find of the idea of going home pleasant and was, I think, starved of stability. Eventually, though, he moved to Gravity Falls for his work, and it was sometime after that he asked me to join him. Stanford is my best friend, and what’s more,” Fiddleford chuckled. “It was free housing. And besides… well, surely you’ll agree that Ford has always seemed to struggle with his own caretaking. So I high tailed it up here to join him. He’d become completely transfixed by the local culture and the creatures in those woods. I moved in with him for the long term. We’ve been awfully close, you see, every since we met.”

Stan bit back a retort. He was sure Fiddleford was not as close to his brother as he thought he was.

“As much as he liked Gravity Falls, though, it wasn't enough to satisfy him. The locals here are- well, it's hardly a scholarly community, and there's little interest in all that Stanford was finding in the forest. I wasn't enough to satiate his intellectual hunger, as it were, so he started going out of town once a week to a university between here and Innsmouth. That's a town further into the forest, a lot wilder and even smaller than this one. No one really likes it all that much from what I can tell, but Stanford really enjoyed these meetings he was attending. Enough to even drive out there, and you must know how he _loathes_ driving.”

That got a laugh out of Stan. Stanford could hardly get into a car without screaming.

“Eventually he started to go more often,” Fiddleford went on. “And I guess that's where the trouble began. Close as we were, he didn't tell me his real interest in the meetings until he started to really fret about missing them. You see, he’d met someone.”

Stanley frowned. “What, like a girl?”

“It seemed that way. Beatrice Cipher. At least, _I_ was sure it was Beatrice, but he only ever referred to them as Bea. Ford was completely smitten with them. Said they were the smartest person he’d ever met, even smarter than him. Called them his muse once. He could talk of nothing else. He found Bea to be full of the interests and erudition which engrossed him most. It seemed regrettable to me that he should be so upheaved of someone from _Innsmouth_ , but of course I said nothing of it. Bea was small one, and had over protuberant eyes, though she looked nice enough. She was one of the Innsmouth Ciphers, the distant relative of a local man called William, who’d taken her in just before he passed. Cipher had lived in a half-decayed mansion, and the attic windows were always boarded and strange sounds would float down as evening drew on. He’d been known to be a prodigal magical student in his day, and legend averred that he could raise a quell or two. He died insane, under queer circumstances, and it was not long after that Bea began to attend the meetings, having been a morbidly avid pupil of his. They were said to look fiendishly alike at times, something about their family's eyes and mannerisms I think. He had also been known for avoiding the townsfolk, another quality he shared with Bea. When she did appear in town, she was known to frighten them with inexplicable leers and winks, and to be very obscene.”

“Yeah,” Stanley nodded. “Sounds weird.”

“Bea also seemed to share Cipher’s power. She professed to be able to raise thunderstorms, though her seeming success was generally laid to uncanny knack at prediction. Ford, though, had no reason to doubt her and began to work with Bea on various projects, and eventually invited them to live with us. When I first met them, well- Bea possessed the strange quality of absolute androgyny, which I'll have to admit, threw me off. I was inclined to wonder whether Bea really _was_ short for Beatrice. Animals all seemed to dislike them. What’s more, they had curious eyes that seemed to follow me everywhere I went, and I often had the strange sense that I was watching myself through them, in her place.”

Stan furrowed his brow. “So, this Bea didn't look like a man or a woman?” Fiddleford nodded. “And with the piercing eyes and all...  That does sound like the person I met at his house.” Stanley frowned. “They didn’t seem that powerful. Hell, I’d say they were the opposite, said something about confinement.”

“Just hold your horses, I'm not finished. After Bea’s arrival- they were always rather cold to me, though I could tell Ford’s interest was by no means one-sided. Bea eyed him at all times with a predatory air and I feared their intimacy was beyond untangling. It was clear they wanted Stanford to themselves. Several servants came with them, and they started going into town instead of Stanford or I. He refused to hear word against them. I could understand why; Bea went out of her way to take care of Ford with as much dedication as I had, even if she was venomous while doing so. I was sure that they were trying to isolate Ford. I even received a phone call from his- _your_ father.”

“No,” Stan said, awed. “Really?”

“That’s correct. Apparently _he’d_ heard of Bea as well, and didn’t… _approve,_ you could say, and wanted to see if I could put an end to their partnership. But there was nothing to be done about it.”

Stan shook his head. The idea that his father might still be seeking control over Stanford was chilling enough, but from Fiddleford’s tone, he might have truly have been voicing the truth- something that made Stanley feel even more sick.

“Well, as time wore on, Ford began to act strangely. He told me it might be for the best for me if I moved out, but I refused to leave him belonging to Bea. He would disappear from the house with Bea at all hours of the day, and he began to treat me much the same as she did. Even when he did seem to be himself, he seemed much changed- more somber and thoughtful. He made strange remarks about ‘going too far’ and ‘saving his identity.’ Eventually, he returned alone one night completely determined to get me out of the house. He drove me into town. I tried to work things out, but he still refused to hear word against Bea. At that point, I lost all hope, and quit our projects and partnership- rather vehemently. He dropped me off at town and that was when things took a turn. See, in his determination to get me out, he had left Bea to come home early. Bea, being without the car, eventually made their way into town. What followed was, I’m sure, the oddest argument I’ll ever see. The man who had driven me into town insisted that they get into the car and come home with them, but Bea seemed adamant that they would stay in town with me. It wasn't until Ford suggested I move back in that Bea did something beside shake her head, but what she said was curious. She said ‘Bill, please.’”

“To Stanford?”

Fiddleford nodded. “The lines in the sand were getting all mixed up, so I was behind Bea now. Stanford could hardly force them to come home with him if they didn't want to and he’d been acting strangely as of late. I reiterated my resignation- truth be told, I had craved quitting for some time- But the moment I voiced my support for her- she seemed to collapse unto herself and bid me a fond farewell. They told me they were grateful for all I'd done but there was no helping them now. I watched her climb into the car, but it wasn't until I heard Stanford’s final words that I understood.”

“Understood?” Stanley frowned. “What do you mean, _final words?_ ”

“He turned to Bea before he’d finished rolling up the window, and I heard his voice clear as a bell. He said ‘See, Ford? It's much easier when you play along.’”

Stanley’s frowned deepened. Fiddleford looked at him eagerly, clearly expecting something to click, but he did not know what he was hoping for. “I don't get it,” he told McGucket.

Fiddleford sighed. “His relationship with Bea- or, perhaps I might refer to them as _Bill_ now- seemed to constantly slip; one moment Ford seemed the one in control, and others, the one being overpowered. When he was himself, he would slip into town sometimes, but most of the townsfolk seemed to think him unhinged. What he said was not to be believed, even here, in legend-haunted Gravity Falls. He threw out all sorts of dark lore which made one fear for his sanity. He talked about all manner of the unbelievable and sometimes, he would back them up by exhibiting objects which utterly nonplussed me. I could not even- I _won’t_ even begin to describe them to you, I myself would wish to unsee many of them. He told me they came from ‘the outside,’ and that Bill knew how to get them. This was before he told me it had become too dangerous to continue our correspondence, and cut off all contact with me. That was not the end of it, though.”

Stanley’s head was beginning to hurt. He couldn’t make sense of any of this, nor what it meant.

“It was over a month ago- I received a letter, at least a few weeks back. Ford had come to somewhere in Canada, having been away on business- Bea, or Bill, was supposed to be with him, though watchful gossips had declared there was someone upstairs in the house behind thoroughly curtained windows. And now, up north, someone had wired me news of a madman that had stumbled out of the woods with delirious ravings, and screamed to me for protection. He had only just been able to recall his own name, and my address. From what I gather,” Fiddleford lifted Stanley’s letter to pass it back to him. “That was also when he first considered writing you. He may have even sent you this letter at the same time as mine, judging by the hastiness in which it was surely concocted, though in his state, he failed to tell you his location and you came here.”

Stanley did not like the suggestion that he’d been _wrong_ to come here, not when Fiddleford seemed to think Ford was in danger of losing his mind. “Well, I’m here now,” he retorted, folding his arms. “And I still don’t see what your point is. You haven’t made sense of anything, you’ve only made it more muddled up.”

“You still haven’t realized? I had watched your brother refer to _Bea_ as Ford. Up until that moment, Stanford had been the one acting like Bea and treating me poorly, and Bea had been the one he was controlling. They had _switched_ places.”

“Well, yeah.”

McGucket shook his head. “Not figuratively. _Literally_. The person inside of Ford’s body was Bea- or Bill, as I’m now inclined to believe is its name- and the one in Bea’s was your brother and my friend, Stanford Pines.”

“That doesn't make any sense.”

“I know it’s all unbelievable, Stanley, but keep an open mind. Or rather, _don’t._ Needless to stay, I went to Canada to pick him up. It took a day of feverish jolting through all manner of forbidding and fantastic scenery to find him; Stanford was in a cell at a town farm, frenzied. He knew me at once, though, and seemed to pour out a meaningless and barely coherent torrent of words that seemed to be directed at me. I wrote it all down, hoping we might make sense of it together when he’d settled.” Fiddleford rose, turning to a nearby bookshelf. He pulled a book down, flicked through the pages, and found a piece of paper. He handed it to Stanley.

“Read it aloud,” Stanley said.

Fiddleford nodded reluctantly and took it back. “ _‘The pit of nightmares! Down the six thousand steps… the abomination of abominations…. I would never let him take me, then I found myself there…_ Iä?” Fiddleford clucked his tongue. “That’s what it sounded like, anyhow, _iä_ . _‘Pyronica, the creature with eighty seven or so heads… the shape rose up from the altar, and there were five hundred that howled… The Being Whose Name Must Never Be Said bleated ‘Bill! Bill’... I was there, he promised he wouldn’t take me… A minute before I was locked in the library, and then I was there where he had gone with my body- in the place of utter blasphemy, the unholy pit where the black realm begins and the watcher guards the gate… I saw a nightmare- it changed shape… I can’t stand it- I won’t stand it- I don’t care if he wears my skin, I’ll_ kill _him if he ever sends me there again, I’ll kill that entity, with my own hands, no matter where he is!’”_ Fiddleford lowered the paper. “I understood only some of it, based upon the work I had done before Bill had kicked me out of the house.” Fiddleford shuddered. “He had done all manner of fearsome things, even before he began to take over Stanford’s body, and the project we’d started work on- it keeps me up at night, but that’s more nonsense for another time. It took me an hour to quiet Stanford, and the next day I fetched him some decent clothes and we drove back toward Gravity Falls. His hysteria was spent, and he was inclined to be silent before he began talking to himself under his breath. It was clear he had no desire to return home. Finally free from Bill’s watchful eye, he confirmed my suspicions and then some.”

“You mean, he really _was_ swapping place with him?”

Fiddleford looked down at his tea, still untouched, and tapped his finger against the side. “Yes. As time wore on his speech grew more distinct and I caught utterly insane drivel about Bill. The extent to which he had preyed on his nerves was plain. It seemed this wasn't the first time Bill’s hourglass had run out and he’d come to in the woods or some cavern, but Bill had sworn not to take him to the place they had gone. Worse, it seemed that Bill truly was getting ahold of him, and Ford was sure that someday he would never let go. I suggested he return here with me, or perhaps flee even the country if he felt it necessary, so long as he got away from Bill- I was determined to put him up myself, to be honest, no matter what unpleasantness it might make with Bill- but Ford was sure there would be no running from him. The demon was more ancient than I had ever imagined. You see, Ford claimed that Bea had not been the original host. Between his ramblings, I was able to piece it together- when Bea has gone to Innsmouth to stay with William Cipher, Bill had been in the body of her dying relative. Ford wondered about the way old William had shrieked, like a frightened child, when he went mad, and Bea had locked him up for good before his death. _‘Who locked in whom?’_ he asked me. He had switched places with the poor girl, as he surely had intended to do with Ford from the beginning. He had found some formula for it, in an old book, but he refused to tell me what page- and thank God for that. It seemed that Bill would move on from vessel to vessel, meaning never to die and lose power in our realm. Ford was terrified that there would be no escaping Bill now that he had him under his sway, but I finally was able to change his mind.”

“So, what? Is Ford _here_?” Stanley demanded. “Or... did Bill take him over again? What happened?”

Fiddleford shook his head. “The… this _thing_ happened. Just as we began to plan, he started to shake and his voice began to rise to a terrible scream, shrill as a train whistle- and then suddenly, it halted abruptly, as though it had been shut off. His face seemed to contort and twist, until it was unrecognizable, and his entire body seemed to shake and shiver, as if it were readjusting itself to a radically different posture. I pulled over to help him, and there came over me- a- a- a _swamping_ wave of sickness and- _repulsion._ I was frozen, petrified by the utter alienage and abnormality. I faltered, and Ford quickly wrestled the wheel away from me and had forced me into the passenger seat, but still, it took me several slow moments to realize Bill had returned into Stanford’s body, and my dear friend was surely back in Gravity Falls. It had grown dark, by now, but the blaze of his eyes- it was phenomenal.”

“So what did you do?”

Fiddleford’s hand clenched. “I- I could barely find the voice to speak, as it were. Bill himself did not say anything till we’d reached a black stretch of road, though I was still trying to convince myself it was Stanford, and this was all some concoction in my mind, though I knew this was not the voice of Ford. He said that he hoped I’d forgive his panic, but that I knew what his-” Fiddleford grit his teeth. “Surely referring to _Ford’s_ \- nerves were like, and he was sure I could excuse such things, and told me he was thankful for the ride home, all rather- _cheerfully,_ I might add. I found myself wanting to vomit. He went on to tell me that I must forget any word he might have spoken against his dear Bea, and all things in general, that they stemmed from overstudy in our field, and with his bizarre philosophies, wearing out his mind could result in all sort of imaginary application. He promised to take a rest from now on, and lamented that he might not see me for some time, but I was not to blame Bea for it. He couldn’t seem to shut up, and I was astounded that I had ever been able to mistake this _thing_ for Stanford. He told me he had gone on a trip in search of some old relic from the native culture, in which he and Bea had taken an interest, and must have gone off his head. He laughed- he _always_ seemed to be laughing, Bill- and said he’d have to send someone for the car. A month’s rest, he assured me, would recover him.”

“What did you say?”

Fiddleford fidgeted with his cup, looking away. “I- It was- I was overcome with a flush of real fury, I’ll admit, and determined to put an end to this. I attempted to begin an interrogation, telling him I knew what Bill was, but- He laughed on and denied any knowledge of Bill, and said he was sure he had been raving as the resort of some mental quirks, and once more suggested I forget anything he’d said.” Fiddleford looked away and into the fire. “I’m ashamed to say that in my fear, I allowed silence to come between us. He left my car with hasty repetition of his thanks and- I drove home rather relieved. The only talk I’ve heard since then was of a week Stanford spent away, hinting at some meeting with a cult leader, and more talk of the sounds coming from his house, sobbing, and sometimes outright screaming, sometimes recognizable as a man’s voice. Bea appeared once at the diner in town, I remember that I was sitting in the corner- she was generally friendly with the townsfolk, sprightly I would say, and chatted with all of guests. She apologized for her absences and spoke incidentally of the nervous breakdown a guest from San Francisco had fallen into, and hoped that any wailing or sounds we might have heard from them would be excused. Needless to say, this guest never appeared. We spoke very briefly, and our whole conversation- despite the nature of the talk being small, and her voice very light- seemed rather tense to me, and I can only assume it was not Stanford in her body at the time. Ford himself only visited once- though I’m certain it was Bill- to retrieve some books he had once lent me. After that-” Fiddleford set down his tea. “I almost didn’t regret Ford’s absence from my company.”

Stanley could not help but narrow his eyes at that. Perhaps he had been correct in assuming this Fiddleford McGucket had not truly filled his shoes when it came to Ford. Stan thought back to the person in the house, who had written in his brother’s hand, and a chill ran down his spine. Was it truly possible that he had been in the presence of his trapped brother without realizing it? And if he had failed to detect the presence of his own brother… was it truly fair of him to judge Fiddleford for failing to detect Bill? Stan looked down at his letter, and read the address again and again. There was no mistaking that it was in his brother’s hand. Stanley felt a pit beginning to grow in the bottom of his stomach, deep and dark.

“You’ll see that, as insane as I might sound, there's an ounce of truth to my story.”

Stanley nodded. “I hate to admit it, but as crazy as it all seems- and believe me, pal, it seems crazy- now that I've heard all of it, I do sort of see the sense to it. When I saw… I guess it was Stanford, he made lots of little slip ups that really should have given it away then, I just didn't realize what was going-” Stanley felt his chest swell up in realization, and broke out into a grin in spite of himself.

“What is it?” Fiddleford asked.

“Ford might just have figured a way out,” Stanley told him. “He threw me a pair of glasses, and the servants let me in because they mistook me for him. Better yet, they thought Bill had lost his power over him, and the result was that even though it was still Ford in his body, they thought Bill had been forced back in, and gave him the key to his room. He had me do all sorts of weird things, but now- I figure we had pretended to switch places once more, and I kept up the illusion that I was Bill in Ford’s body. He gave me the key, and I left it outside for him.”

A tentative smile crept into Fiddleford’s eyes. “So that when Bill does lose control over him, he would be locked in the room!”

“And from what I saw, Bill lost control not long after I left!” Stanley laughed. “Bastard started screaming, he was probably real pissed.”

Fiddleford chuckled. “That’ll give him a taste of his own medicine.” Fiddleford moved slowly toward the hall. “Perhaps now that we’ve dealt with the more pressing issues, I could offer you some dinner?”

Stan pushed himself up from the couch. “Buddy, that's the best thing you've said since I came in here.”

“I'm afraid I've not got much. Fortunately, though, I have some leftovers.” Stanley followed Fiddleford into the kitchen, where he opened his refrigerator. “I don’t suppose I could interest you in old meatloaf?”

“Pal, you can do a lot more than interest me.”

Fiddleford pulled out the meatloaf and began to cut them large portions. “I’ll heat some gravy so it's not too cold. Do you know where it is you'll be staying?”

“‘Fraid not.”

Fiddleford pulled a tin of gravy out from his cupboard, fetched a saucepan, and went to heat it over the stove. “You’re welcome to stay with me, if you're so inclined.”

“That sounds great,” Stan told him. “Better than great, actually. Last place I slept was a barn.”

“Dear me.” Fiddleford handed him a plate and some silverware. “Sorry, it's not much.”

Stan dropped down at the kitchen table and immediately dove into the meatloaf. “I don't know what you're talking about, this is the greatest loaf I've ever had.”

Fiddleford sat down, smiling. “I’m glad. I'm just concerned for your health, you should have a hotter meal after traipsing about in the snow all day.”

Stan finished, and made a show of licking the plate. He held up the clean plate so Fiddleford could see it. “Gravy was hot enough for me.”

Fiddleford began to laugh. “Come on, I’ll show you where you can sleep.”


	4. Chapter 4

**VI.**  

* * *

It was early the next evening when their long-awaited news arrived. Stanley and Fiddleford were in the middle of a cup of tea, laughing about Stanford’s habit of falling asleep mid-book, when a knock on the door silenced Fiddleford. He leaned forward to shush Stanley, listening intently. Whoever it was knocked again, three times, in a pattern that sounded familiar to Stanley though he could not discern why. Fiddleford stood up sharply, racing out of the kitchen and for the door. He grabbed the pistol from before.

“Who do you think it is?” Stanley called, standing. Fiddleford held up a finger to shut up him and listened as they knocked once more. Three more raps, then a pause. The doorbell rang once, twice, a third time-

Fiddleford’s shoulders slumped with relief, his tension vanishing.

“Stanford,” he whispered, and turned to open the door.

Stanford did not enter the house so much as fall into it, dropping onto Fiddleford like an old cloth. Fiddleford rushed to catch him, helping him to step further inside, but Stanford waved him off and straightened himself. Stanley watched as he clumsily headed toward the sitting room, rubbing his throat.

“You don’t happen to have some whiskey or something, do you Fidds?” he asked, his voice rough. “To steady my nerves, is all, though if not, water will certainly suffice.”

 _“Fidds?”_ Stanley repeated, shocked and more than a little amused by the nickname, as Fiddleford mumbled something and raced to the kitchen.

Stanford leaned heavily on the doorway, looking up at the loud voice, and his eyes- already white and maddened- widened further at the sight of Stanley. Ford slowly broke out into a grin.

“Stanley!”

Stanley could not help but smile back, moving to put an arm around Ford. He helped him down onto the couch. “That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”

“You’ve no _idea_ how glad I am to see you again.” Ford smacked himself on the forehead, his grin faltering. “Oh, it’s the longest story, Stanley, and I doubt you’d even believe it-”

“You don’t need to worry.” Stan shoved Ford helpfully. “ _Fidds_ , he just explained it all to me, and I think I’ve just about made sense of it.”

Stanford laughed sadly. “You must think me a real idiot. I was a fool to fall into Bill’s trap, I-” he shuddered, reaching up to rub his neck. “It’s all, I’m- I’ll have to tell you more of it later, Fiddleford barely even knows the half of it, and I don’t think he has the stomach for the rest. But it’s- I- _God,_ Stanley, you don’t even realize what you’ve done. You’d- It’s all- you’d never have fallen for Bill’s tricks, I’ll tell you that.”

“Yeah, speaking of all of this.” Stan smirked at Ford, dropping onto the couch next to him. “Maybe next time you can just say ‘Hey Stan, it’s me, your brother, trapped in some jerk’s body,’ then prove it by telling me my middle name or something.”

“Oh, _God,”_ Ford moved to massage his temples. “That _would_ have done quick work of it.”

“Hey, I’m just kidding. You look like death, by the way.”

Ford laughed, but it seemed hollow somehow. Stan willed himself to keep his smile from slipping.

Fiddleford returned with a bottle and a glass, shoving them into Stanford’s hands before falling back into his arm chair. He watched fearfully as Stanford poured himself a shaky glass, and promptly downed all of it, and picked up his old cup of tea, certainly cold by now, and began to scratch nervously at the sides. Ford refilled his glass and took one more sip before setting it down on the coffee table, alongside the bottle. He watched Fiddleford intently, and Fiddleford looked everywhere but at him, apparently failing to notice his presence in the house. Stanley could not help but feel he was interfering in a very private moment, and resented it. He had become a part of this strange battle, and wished that Fiddleford could summon even a smidge of the triumph inside of him.

“Bill has _gone_ , Fidds,” Stanford finally said in a choking voice. “I- We had- it’s- we had a _long- talk_ last night, once all the servants were out, and I- he’s- I made him promise to stop preying on me. Of course, I have- had- certain occult defenses you might not have known about. I made it so he _had_ to give in, but got frightfully angry. I was terrified, I’ll admit, but now he’s out of the way for good. Packed up and left town,” Ford added quickly. “I think perhaps he’ll return to Innsmouth, but he may head elsewhere. I suppose- it’s- the project is- people will talk, but I can hardly help that. I-if either of you are asked, you needn’t say there was any trouble. He’s probably going to stay with one of his horrible group of devotees. Further east, I hope. Anyhow, I- He’s d- I made Bill _promise_ to keep away and let me alone, and now he’s d- he’s _done_ . It was wretched, Stan, he was stealing my body, crowding me out, making a prisoner of me.” Ford turned back to Fiddleford. “I laid low and pretended to let him do it, but I had to be on the watch. I could plan if I was careful, he couldn’t _literally_ read my mind, certainly not in detail. All he could ever get out of me was a _mood,_ a sort of rebelliousness, but he always knew I was helpless.” Ford laughed again, short and loud, more of a bark than anything. “If I’m being honest, I’d actually begun to think so too. All hope really seemed to be lost, until Stanley arrived. It was all so sudden, and it was a longshot- but it’s _worked,_ and he’s finished now.”

Ford looked around the room sharply, as if he didn’t quite believe what he was saying, and expected Bill to roll out from under the couch or behind the bookcase. Fiddleford nodded absentmindedly, staring down into his tea. Ford went to pour himself another drink. “And I paid off those damn servants when they got back this morning. They were pretty ugly about it, asked a lot of questions, but they went.” Ford turned to Stanley. “They’re Innsmouth people, similar to him, but definitely not so… not the same. They were hand and glove with him, though, and I doubt they’ll let me alone. I didn’t like the way they laughed when they walked away- _laughing-_ at me- always- the laughter- I think I might move back east soon, or at least further south, to get out of the area.”

“I can help you shake them,” Stanley told him. “I’ve done my fair share of running, it’s not so hard to give someone the slip.”

Ford smiled weakly. “I suppose you think I’m crazy, Stan. But believe me, this town’s history- it seems to hint at things that would back up all you’ve heard, and what I’ve yet to tell you. Fidds has seen it himself.”

Fiddleford nodded once more, looking up. Stanley did not like the expression in his eyes when he looked at his brother, it seemed that he was sizing him up. He looked afraid of him, but his eyes seemed cold and hard, and Stanley could not help wondering where he had left his pistol. Far away, he hoped.

“I believe you,” Stanley said, and Ford’s smile seemed a little more believeable.

“On the way back from Canada,” Ford went on. He didn’t seem to notice the ice in Fiddleford’s gaze. “That was when he got me- last thing I remembered, I was trying to- just about to, I was just about to tell you what kind of devil he was- and then I was- it was like a flash, I was back in the house where those _damn_ servants had me locked up- I’d have hoped you would have realized, Fiddleford, with all that had happened I thought you may have caught on, but Bill- you _know_ it was he you rode home with-”

Fiddleford said something, so quietly that Stanley could not fully hear, but it seemed to satisfy Ford, who nodded in agreement, and turned back to Stan, then to Fiddleford again, as if he wasn’t sure who needed to know more.

“I _had_ to save myself- I had to! He’d have had me for good by the end of the year- there’s a sacrifice, some ritual on the longest night of the year- it’d have got me for good, just the way he wanted it to be… and I suppose… he would have put me out of the way, just as before-”

Stanford had begun to pant, and paused to catch his breath. To Stanley’s relief, Fiddleford’s expression softened, and Stanley reached over to take his brother’s hand.

“Hey, easy,” he told him, in as comforting a tone he could. “It’s all over now, we’re here.”

When Stanford resumed his voice was more regular. Ford’s time with Bill had done its work, and Stanley wondered if perhaps he might never wish to dabble in his morbid research again.

“I’ll tell you more of it later, I- I must have a long rest now. Stanley, I’ll tell you something of the forbidden horrors he led me into. Something of the age-old horrors that even now are festering in out of the way corners, kept alive only by a few monstrous priests. Some people know things about the universe that nobody ought to know, and can do things that nobody ought to be able to do. I’ve been up to my neck in all of this nonsense, but this is the end of Bill. I’d burn the damned books back at the library if I was only working there.” Stanford took a deep breath. “But he can’t get to me now. I’ll get out of that cursed house as soon as I can, then- settle down elsewhere.” He looked happily between Stanley and Fiddleford. “You’ll help me should I need it, I know. Those devilish servants- people shouldn’t get too inquisitive about Bea. I could never give out her address, there are certain groups of- cults, you could say, cults, you know- that might misunderstand how our partnership has come to an end.”

Ford went to push himself up off the couch, and Fiddleford and Stan both rushed to his side.

“I’ll put you up for the night,” Fiddleford offered. “The week, as long as need be. I could sleep in my study-”

“No need, no need.” Ford straightened, shrugging them off. “I can sleep on the couch.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Stanley told him. “You’ve been through an ordeal. _You_ take the guest room and I’ll sleep down here.”

“It’s _fine,_ Stanley, I’ll only be a night.”

“We could get you back east, to my parent’s place,” Fiddleford suggested.  Stanford shook his head.

“It’s fine, really. I just need a night to settle my nerves, then I’ll be back home until I can move out.”

“You know what, there’s some extra blankets in the guest room.” Stanley turned. “It’s the least I can do, if you insist on sleeping down here.”

“Really, Stanley, it’s no trouble-”

Stanley cut him off. “You’re right, it isn’t. I’ll be just a moment.”

He hurried up the staircase and into Fiddleford’s guest room, opening up the closet. Stanley had only carried a single bag, so he hadn’t done much moving in, and most of the blankets were still put away. He grabbed a few and rushed back downstairs.

Stanford had sat back down on the couch and, to Stanley’s great chagrin, Fiddleford had taken the seat next to him. They were speaking in low, fervent whispers, and they both stopped when Stanley entered the room. It had sounded almost like they had been arguing.

“Grabbed you some blankets,” Stanley snapped, dropping them onto his lap. He immediately felt sorry for his tone, but couldn’t help but feel their quick dismissal of him justified his irritation.

Stanford smiled gratefully. “Wonderful. I can’t tell you how long it’s been since I’ve had a good night’s sleep.”

“If you two don’t mind,” Fiddleford said briskly. “I think I’ll be retiring to my study for the evening. Stanford, you’re sure you don’t need some dinner?”

Stanford shook his head. “No, Fidds, I couldn’t eat a thing.” He reached forward to grab Fiddleford’s hand. “We’ll speak more tomorrow?”

Fiddleford looked down at his hand, and Stanley thought he looked perhaps a little discomforted by the sudden gesture. “We’ll see about it,” he said briskly, and pulled his hand back. “I, for one, am exhausted. I’m sure I’ll see you two in the morning.”

Stanford sighed as Fiddleford left the room, and Stanley took the cushion that had been left empty. He clapped Ford on the shoulder.

“You’ve sure got yourself into some real trouble, huh pal?”

Ford laughed weakly. “I suppose I did.”

“Listen, I know Fidds doesn’t want to talk about it, but personally I’m kinda curious as to how you got mixed up in all of this.”

“Well, I’d certainly be interested to hear what _you’ve_ been up to these past years as well.”

“You go first.”

“I suppose Fidds filled you in on what he could,” Ford told Stan. “However, the full story is stranger, I’m sure, than he imagined. If I’m correct, in his version it begins with the meetings at Innsmouth?”

“That’s right.”

“I thought so.” Ford took off his glasses and went to clean them off on the edge of his shirt. “The truth is, though, that I met Bill before then. He wasn’t always my- well- I used to think he was my _friend_. I’d been researching the oddities of this town since I arrived, but I eventually came to a roadblock in my investigation of Gravity Falls. Until, one day, when I found some mysterious writing in a cave. Ancient incantations about a being with answers. It warned me not to read them, but I was desperate. I read the inscription allowed, and at first nothing happened. Until later that afternoon when I had the most peculiar dream. Bill appeared to me, offered me a cup of tea, played a game of chess with me, and he told me that he was a muse who chose one brilliant mind a century to inspire. The meetings at Innsmouth were more a test than anything; I believed that he was measuring my skills and knowledge, seeing if I wasn’t just a fluke.”

“So you knew this Bea girl was fake from the very beginning?”

Ford nodded glumly. “Unfortunately, yes. But it wasn’t until the real ordeal began that I realized she was another pawn of Bill’s. Previously, I had only thought that he got ahold of the form and created a fake name. I didn’t believe that he he would ever go so far as to actually take someone’s body, let alone someone uninvolved. It seemed to me that he had taken a female host perhaps to create an excuse to get closer without any risk of talk. It never seemed strange to me that he demanded I didn’t tell Fiddleford the truth about what he was. Speaking honestly, I was relieved, as I truly believed _he_ might be the only other mind Bill might consider aiding in its journey.  Nor was I concerned that he used my body in the beginning- after all, our country does look toward men with a gentler eye.”

“Yeah, guess so. But how’d you get this deep in all of this?” Stanley asked. “You said Bea was another of Bill’s pawns, were there more?”

“Many more. Old William Cipher, to begin with. And then there’s all of his minions, they’re spread out at least across the country. He was quite the puppeteer. I even have reason to believe some of the- no, the servants work for themselves, I’m getting worked up over nothing. There are countless cults, I believe, that follow him as well, and possibly worse.”

_“Worse?”_

“Yes, much worse. It’s- you wouldn’t _believe_ some of the things I’ve seen, Stanley. You wouldn’t want to. I shouldn’t- I’m terribly sorry.”

“Hey, it’s alright.” Stanley reached out to touch his shoulder, and Ford flinched. He let his hand fall. “Look, you seem exhausted. We’ve got loads of catching up to do but… maybe in the morning?”

Ford nodded, looking relieved. “Tomorrow morning.”

“Sounds great.” Stanley stood up. “Tomorrow. See you then?”

“Certainly.”

Stanford just looked so _hurt_. His hair stuck out in all directions, and clearly hadn’t been washed for sometime, though Stanley was sure his was no better. His lip seemed to tremble. He even looked a little underfed, and his coat hung off of him as though it were draped over a skeleton. His eyes were red, with dark and heavy bags beneath them. And, Stanley realized, his glasses has obviously been broken more than a few times, and it seemed his nose had suffered a similar fate at least once. He looked almost ghostly, as if he had died in front of him, though Stan was sure he had seen dead men that were better off.

Stanley felt like he should do something more than just _look_ at Stanford, but he was pretty sure his brother didn’t want to be touched, and hell, he looked so tired. Still, staring at him and nodding made him feel like an idiot.

He was sure there was something else he should say; something to make up for all the time they’d missed, but he couldn’t put words to the feeling in his chest or the urge in his brain.

“Well,” Stanley said. “Uh. Goodnight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aand we've reached the point where people who've read the original text might be catching onto what's coming for Ford. If you haven't, rest assured, it's only going to be more of a spooky surprise. Speaking of spooky, everyone should check out Extraordinary Tales on Netflix, it's an animated collection of Edgar Allan Poe stories and I loved the overall plot that tied them together and all the different animation styles used! It was so enjoyable and perfect for the season, 10/10, highly recommend. Speaking of the season, anyone have costumes planned? 
> 
> hope you liked the chap, more to come coon! We're already like, a third of the way through? Wow? Also, more details on Ford and "Bea's" parting to come, hopefully.


	5. Chapter 5

**V.**

* * *

 Stanley and Stanford discussed little of Bill the next morning. Stanley told his brother a bit of what he had told Fiddleford, admitting to himself that he was perhaps leaving a little out of his travels to make sure Ford did not get too worked up. Though Ford seemed much recovered from last night’s ordeal, Stan was sure he sensed traces of stress and anxiety beneath his calm composure.

At first, Ford seemed forcedly polite, asking Stanley about what it was he’d been doing the last few years and telling him a bit about his research. But as Stan filled him in on all of his escapades, he came alive, asked him more personal questions, and laughed at all of his jokes. It felt nice, Stanley had to admit, though a part of him hoped that Ford would tell a bit of what he had gone through. And, despite the fact that he knew it was asking for a lot, an even more hidden part of him hoped that Ford would bring up their feud. He knew Ford wouldn’t apologize for letting him get thrown out into the streets, but it would be nice to know that he felt at least a little remorseful, or that he had missed him. After all, Stanley had kept in touch with their mother, and had been following Ford as best he could, and if Ford told him that he had done the same- that would be enough for him. But maybe, he realized, it was for the best that Ford didn’t mention it. The last thing they needed right now was to rekindle their argument.

Ford wasted no time in returning to his home, so Stanley insisted that he and Fiddleford accompany him. The three of them drove over in Fiddleford’s automobile, though Fiddleford politely declined to come inside, instead opting to stay and keep the car warm. Stanley had thought that his brother might invite him to come and stay at his house- it was certainly spacious- but he did no such thing. Ford did not even offer him a tour. Stanley told himself it was because Ford had bad memories there. He went to visit him daily, and was sure that Ford simply wanted to get out of the house as soon as possible.

Stanford seemed curiously fixated on the house. Stanley suggested he begin dismantling it several times, and was met with only vague promises to begin soon on every occasion. Often, he failed to answer the door because he was down in the basement. Fiddleford nearly spilt his tea when Stanley told him this, and thoroughly interrogated him on what he’d seen about the house and then assured him that all was certainly fine. Ford would, he vowed, move out soon.

Stanley just wished that someone would give him a straight story, or at least a straight answer _,_ for once. He couldn’t help but feel he was still missing some crucial pieces of information.

He told Susan an abridged version over the Greasy’s counter one Thursday morning as she poured him a mug of coffee. Leaving out, of course, all the nonsense with Bill and possession.

“I just wish they’d _talk_ to me, y’know?” Stan asked. “Both of them. I can’t tell what’s going on between them, I’d gotten the feeling that McGucket and him got on fine, but the second he actually showed up, it was like he was _scared_ of him or something.”

Susan nodded. “Well sure, they had their big split, remember?”

Stan lifted his cup. “Cheers. I think their whole spat was a little more complicated than you let on, hon.”

She shrugged. “Maybe. Anything that’s in the _newspaper_ is bound to be big.”

Stan had a swig of coffee. “I’d sorta forgotten about the newspaper. You didn’t manage to dig up a copy, did you?”  

“Nope. And sorry,” Susan smiled weakly. “But from what I’ve seen, he’s always seemed a bit strange.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right, but this is the _bad_ sort of strange. It’s… unwholesome, I guess. He’s my brother, you know? I want to look out for him. I’m just hoping things look up once the seasons start changing.”

“You’ve got a ways to go, then.”

“You got any more cream, Sue?”

“I’ll grab you some.” Susan crossed over to the coffee station and returned with a fresh pitcher and cream. “You want a refill?”

“Not just yet.” Stan stirred in some more cream, and had another long drink from his coffee. “We’re supposed to do some travelling once the weather gets better. Been talking about it awhile, actually. He’s always had the money, but never the initiative, or something. I’ve seen a lot of the country, so I’ll get him around. We talked about it a lot as kids- getting a boat, and just sailing away. Treasure hunting, pretty ladies, that sort of thing. I suggested we maybe go to Europe but- it’s the oddest thing. It’s like, anything with the water… then again, he’s been through some _weird_ stuff, Sue, I barely even believe half of what he and McGucket have said. Their research was kind of bizarre, so I’m glad I’m getting him away from it. Okay, now I’ll have that refill.”

Susan poured him another generous cup, her eyes gleaming. “What sort of stuff?”

Stan shrugged, recognizing the hungry look on her face. He’d known from the start that she was a gossip and had been awaiting the moment he would have to dodge her questioning bullets. “I barely even understand it.” He downed his coffee, then wiped his mouth and reached for his pocket. “Thanks so much for the coffee, doll. How much do I owe you?”

“On the house, mister.” Susan winked. “You can make it up to me sometime.”

“I intend to.” Stan stood. “Y’know, Sue? I think you might be the only _normal_ person I’ve met here, and thank God for that.”

“Shucks. Hey, I’ll see if I still can’t find that newspaper for you, I might be able to at least get the date.”

“That’d mean the world. Have a great day, alright?”

“You too.”

He stopped to mail several letters before leaving town, and didn’t try to hold back his scowl. They were, he knew, checks to Ford and Bill’s old servants, and Stanley hated the thought that they were pulling some sort of _reward_ out of all of this. They’d let Bill wring his brother dry, and they sounded fairly odd to him. What sort of a name was _Kryptos,_ anyway? Those Innsmouth folk were more than a little off.

Stan whistled as he walked to Ford’s house. It was snowing a bit, but his brother had at least been gracious enough to lend him a better coat, and he actually _had_ brought a few dollar bills to Greasy’s today. Now that Ford was back in the house, Stanley couldn’t help but get the feeling that he seemed a lot less glad of his presence, but he still managed to insist on helping him out a bit, and was simply trying to satiate him with gifts and promises, but Stan was determined not to let Ford slip through his fingers again.

He headed through the wrought iron gate, glancing up at the upstairs windows. He thought back to his arrival here, when Ford had been hidden away up there. His brother had seemed almost more at ease then. Ever since he’d defeated Bill, Ford had had a stammer in his voice, and it didn’t look as though he were sleeping easily. Stan hated to admit it, but Ford had been more sure of himself _before_ , when he’d been in Bea’s body.

Stanley did not bother to knock as he entered the house. “Hey, Ford, I’m here,” he called, and did not receive any answer. He walked into the kitchen and started to look around for food. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem that Bill had been in the habit of keeping a fully stocked pantry, and Ford had yet to go shopping.

He heard footsteps, and Ford appeared in the doorway moments later. “Sorry about that,” he said briskly. “I was busy downstairs.”

“You’re always busy downstairs,” Stanley snapped, and immediately felt guilty. Stanford had been through a lot, after all. “It’s no trouble, Ford, really.”

Stanford was, at least, looking well. Whatever he’d been doing in the basement had surely improved his mood, and he didn’t seem to falter, as Stan had grown used to him doing. Perhaps he’d begun to pack up his belongings; Stan certainly hoped that was the case.

“I’ve been thinking,” Ford told him.

“What else is new?”

“About the boat,” Ford went on. “The Stan o’ War? I- I might like to sail out after all.”

Stan turned to look at him, his heart soaring. “Really?”

Ford nodded. “Yes, really. I’d- been set on hiding, you see, but I think we ought to face the dangers of this world head on. The truth is, there’s all variety of… _things_ out there, in the ocean, and I do believe I have a duty to go out there and study them, stop what horrors I can- I would need someone to accompany me, someone of spry mind.”

A grin spread across Stan’s face. “Someone to sail with you on the adventure of a lifetime?”

“Not just anyone, Stanley.” Ford reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out an old photograph. He passed it to Stan. He recognized it immediately, in spite of the smudged ink and creases. It was of the two of them, from their youth, though Stanley couldn’t quite remember when it had been taken. “I want to go with _you._ ”

Stan laughed, and clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m _in,_ Ford, you know I’m in.”

Ford smiled politely. “And- I hate to add this on, but I was thinking- perhaps Fiddleford-”

“Hey, ol’ Fidds is alright in my books. I’d be glad to have his company, especially when you get all intellectual on me.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve got anything to eat around here?”

“N- no, actually, I don’t think I do.”

Stanley glanced out the window. “Perfect timing! The weather’s clearing up, and I was thinking I might get you into town to show me where the library is.”

Ford snorted. “The library? _You?_ ”

“What can I say?” Stan winked. “All this crazy shit’s awakened my natural curiosity. Besides, I’m gonna need to study up if you want my help on the open seas. So what do you say? Walk into town, grab some food, go check out some books?”

“It… _has_ been a long time since I went into town. They all must think I’m some kind of recluse-”

“They sure do,” Stan shoved Ford. “Wanna go fix that?”

“Yes,” Ford nodded. “I do.”

* * *

To Stanley’s relief, Stanford wasted no time in disappearing into the aisles of books. Stanley made a beeline for the counter.

“Hiya, toots.” He leaned in close to the elderly librarian, just in case Ford might overhear. “I’m looking for a newspaper? Some guy named Determined, I think, he wrote about a Fiddleford McGucket, and maybe Stanford Pines?”

The librarian made a face and nodded. “Yes, I think I recall the article. You’ll want early October.”

“Right, thanks. Where’re your papers?”

They pointed, and Stanley hurried over before Ford could catch sight of him. He flipped through the stacks, scrutinizing every date, before finally finding the right time frame. God must have been smiling, because none of the town’s papers ever seemed to be that full, and they only released one meager issue a weak. It didn’t take Stan long to find the right edition. He retired to a nearby table. Most of the articles seemed to be covered by Toby Determined, but after some shuffling, he found what he was sure was the right article. His stomach sank as he saw the length- there was no way he could read it in time. Stanley glanced around, and discreetly stuffed the page in his jacket, then made sure there were no other pages before he returned the paper and went to find Ford.

Ford left the library with his coat bundled up and clutched to his chest. Once they were several paces away from the building, Ford stopped and unfurled his coat to reveal a tall stack of books.

Stan laughed. “Jesus, Ford, are you a robber now?”

Ford didn’t say anything, setting the stack of books down by his feet. He pulled his coat back on. Stan had no idea how he’d managed to hide so many books in one swath of fabric.

“Hey, do you need help carrying any of those?”

“I’ll be fine,” Ford muttered, bending over to pick the books up.

“Uh, they look kinda heavy.” Stan reached over. “Are you sure-”

“It’s _fine,_ Stanley!” Ford raised his voice, and Stan jumped. “I mean- I’ll be fine. These are just- they shouldn’t be there. I’m relocating them.”

“Okay, sure,” Stan nodded. “Makes sense to me.”  It didn’t, of course, but Ford was beginning to look strained, and that was enough for Stan to back off. He could always find out more about the books later, and in the meantime, this would be yet another layer to the dark mysteries surrounding Ford and his former assistant.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this picture has illustrations! i've been trying real hard to imbed them in the work, which is why this chapter is so late. sorry! you get links instead.
> 
> ALSO. IT'S HALLOWEEN.
> 
> What were your costumes??? I went as the grim reaper/the red death and tonight I'm dressing up as columbia for rocky horror!
> 
> stay safe kids!

VI.

* * *

  _GRAVITY FALLS GOSSIPER,_ _October 15, 1933._

**_DISORIENTED MAN FOUND AT MUSEUM-_ **

**_BLAMES COWORKER, SENT PACKING_ **

_BY TOBY DETERMINED_

_Surely everyone in town has heard that newcomer McGucket was found in a state of confusion last Friday. To those of you who decided to drink the water from Innsmouth this week and have only just made it back- Fiddleford H. McGucket has been a resident of Gravity Falls for less than a year now, working with local scientist and fellow newcomer Stanford F. Pines. In the words of locals, the two are known for being “skittish” “secretive” “reclusive” “rude” “overambitious” “intrusive” “peeping” and above all “suspicious.” [SEE SEPTEMBER 10 FOR MORE, OR READ PAGE 2] Having previously been seen only in the company of Pines, McGucket now seems to side more with the townsfolk._

_McGucket was found outside of the museum in the early hours of Friday the Thirteenth after a bout of shouting awakened even the deepest of sleepers. Clearly, his day was less than lucky. Mrs. Gleeful reports that she saw McGucket being dropped off in the town square in a car she recognized as belonging to Pines, shouting madly about “going too far” and “dangerous territory.” Gleeful adds that Pines threw McGucket’s luggage from the car after he began to rant about a “project.” “He was adamant that he would not go back to his house,” Gleeful reports. “Sayin’ that he wouldn’t work on their project no more, and that he’d been put through enough as it was. Then the girl showed up, and he started screamin’ up a storm, pointin’ to her and sayin’ that he wouldn’t put up with her either, and that’s when he woke up my Bud!”_

_Though several witnesses have reported seeing someone at the scene with McGucket and Pines, no one has stepped forward to suggest their identity. Gleeful’s suggestion that they were female is the furthest anyone has gone to name them. However, she claims that they were hard to make out in the dark, and offered no further comment on this person._ _Those we were quick to arrive on the scene inquired as to what was going on. Another witness, local nightwalker Tylene Cutebiker claims that she hurried to get her son away from the scene once she noticed the fighting, but did see the end._

_“Everything started to simmer down,” she told the Gossiper. “I did see someone get in the car with [Pines], but I didn’t see who. They got out of there real fast, and I thought [McGucket] should get out of there too. Didn’t want ta get too close, though.” Cutebiker had previously claimed to see odd lights coming from their formerly shared house and stated that she “wanted nothing to do with those no-good science folk.”_

_McGucket disappeared with his luggage shortly thereafter. A mysterious figure in a hood appeared shortly on the scene, but when I asked for an interview, he simply bellowed “It is unseen!” before scratching my face and bounding away. I chased after him, insisting that nothing was unseen and I would pursue the truth, but they leapt a tall fence and continued to race away. I did attempted to climb the fence and did not give up, even when I saw a blue flash and the man vanished. Unfortunately, he seemed gone for good, and before I knew it I was back at the scene._

_I sought out McGucket for comment and was able to secure an interview, though he refused to let me into his house and I was forced to meet him at the dump. It was difficult to decipher some of his mumblings. What I did understand: McGucket says to have been met with nothing short of “sheer horror” since he came to work in Gravity Falls, most of it at the hands of his partner. He claims Pines is “unrelenting” in his ambition and “doesn’t know when ter quit.” He used some words unfit for public eye, and stated that his former partner was “easy blinded” in more than one aspect. He told me that this was the last Pines would be hearing of him, as he was “quittin’ this project and wouldn’t be doing that thing’s dirty work! I refuse to be a part of his nonsense any more! The things I’ve seen- I won’t see any more of it! I hope he an’ that she-devil are happy together, but I won’t take any more of this! He shouldn’ be messin’ with the things he’s fiddling with! I told him he’d fail and he wouldn’t believe me! I warned him!” When asked about the “she-devil” he referenced, McGucket became greatly agitated. I inquired as to his previous relationship with Pines, but hurried away when he began to rip out his own hair._

_When reached for comment, Stanford Pines did not bother to open the door. After throwing rocks at an upstairs window where I’d thought I’d seen someone for nearly half an hour, a man opened the door. He refused to answer any questions and insisted that I leave. Stanford Pines returned by automobile before nightfall, fortunately, and I threw myself in front of the door after he did not acknowledge me curled up at the gate. I demanded he answer my questions. Pines apologized for being away on business, and told me he was too busy to speak to me and that I “wasn’t structured to understand, anyway.” I asked for elaboration, and Pines stated that I “wasn’t in” and he “really couldn’t be bothered with my petty questions, anyway.” I inquired about the McGucket incident and the She-Devil. Pines told me that “Fidds is a wuss. I turned the heat up and he couldn’t handle it. It’s almost adorable how pathetic he is, and you can put that in your paper. As for Bea, she’s nothing to worry about, just a little fly I stuck on my wall. Why don’t you put a warning out for me? A darkness approaches. The day is coming when all you small-minded folks know will change for the better.” Pines then took my notebook directly from my hands to write “No puppet strings can hold me down, so patiently I watch this town- Abnormal soon will be the norm, so enjoy the calm before the storm. Remember, Europe is on the brink, time is a human construct, and Innsmouth is like a second home! Til then, I’ll be watching!” I attempted to erase his crude scribble (drawing?), but found myself unable to do so. The door locked behind Pines before I could ask for further comment._

_Previously a point of distaste, the relationship between Pines and McGucket is now a point of public interest and gossip. Who is the She-Devil? Is she Bea, or she yet another character in this mysterious narrative? What project did McGucket quit, and just what was Pines getting involved with? Is this the end of their invasion of the town’s privacy? Perhaps to move on to Innsmouth?_

_These questions are sure to be the center of town drama, until tensions peak and all is unveiled. That or, as per usual, everyone will forget before the month is passed. Maybe even before the week is over._

* * *

Stanley felt that he should bring the article up with Fiddleford. After all, his story barely lined up with the article he’d read, as if it had been _made_ for the mold, but did not quite fit. He was sure he remembered mention of a project, but nothing that sounded as important as this Determined guy made it out to be. What’s more, it had seemed like Fiddleford had immediately realized that Bill had been taking control of Ford’s body, but after reading his interview Stan was sure it had taken him longer to realize than he had let on.

Fiddleford, though, was not around.  In the evenings since Stanford’s return he had made a habit of vacating the house each night. Stanley had sat down with the article specifically because he had left and he knew there would be no interruption.

Maybe now, Stan realized, was a time for further investigation.

He was not sure what else he would be able to find in McGucket’s home, but Stan was sure he would be able to find _something._ He folded up the article and stuck it in his pocket before leaving his room. Though the house was empty, he made sure to move as quietly as he could.

Stan had seen a bit of Fiddleford’s house; the bathroom, the kitchen, the parlor, the things a guest would typically see- but he had not bothered to look around and his private rooms. Once he’d seen that he locked his study, he had been inclined to pick the lock. Fiddleford had not seemed to be a wealthy man, so there was nothing of interest in there for Stan except perhaps bragging rights. But beyond opening the door, a feat he had accomplished on his first night, he had yet to invade the room further. He had not even bothered to turn the light on last time. Stanley used Fiddleford’s key this time. He had two copies, one he appeared to carry at all times and another Stan found in his bedside table.

Fiddleford’s bedroom was rather bare. It was made personal only by the three photographs and the heavy book by his bed. The first was of a large family. Stanley could not find anyone of Fiddleford’s height, so he could only assume he was the large-nosed one in spectacles. The children all seemed similar to a brittle, straw-haired woman and a man with a thick beard, so Stanley assumed it was the rest of the McGuckets. The second was of Fiddleford and Stanford, apparently at their graduation, both smiling more than was humanly possible. The third was of a woman and somewhat younger looking Fiddleford. They were holding a small child.

Stanley picked up the McGucket family photo first, and pulled off the back of its case. What looked like a date had been written at some point, but now Stanley could not quite make out the numbers. He recognized Fiddleford’s looping scrawl beneath it.

_VOTMSRIG IVSKRX OORY_

_When Gravity Falls and earth becomes sky_

_fear the beast with JUST ONE EYE_

_12/10/33_

Stanley frowned at the photograph, and did not even bother trying to understand it. Something about it all struck him as odd. The date, in particular, lept out at him. The note was clearly more recent than the photograph, and for some reason, the day seemed naggingly familiar. October twelfth.

He slid the backing into the case, and tried the photo of Fiddleford with the child. Stanley pulled out several dollar bills to discover the note behind this one was even stranger. The crossed-out eye from his signs was drawn in an ink so dark Stan was shocked it hadn’t seeped through to the other side of the photograph. Beneath it was a near illegible mess of words, almost directly atop each other.

 _unsee_ _what you have_ _SEEN_

_tate & samantha - _

_B?_

_jan 1933 palo alto_

**_IÄ?_ **

_IVAN - CARNIVAL / 4 BEAVER ROAD_

_FARMER SPROTT - THE FARM_

_WOODPECKER ?_

_UNSEE_

Stanley frowned at the note, then forced himself to return most of the dollar bills before putting the back in. Had this photo really been taken that January? Stanley turned the frame over to look at the photo. Fiddleford looked years younger. His face seemed smoother, and his eyes wider, and he was watching the woman next to him with a grin that was downright goofy. Stanley finally decided it was just because he was not wearing his spectacles, and sat the frame down.

He felt almost ill as he reached for the graduation photo. Something about it seemed off to him. He shuddered as before he turned it over, and then pried open the frame.

A page fell out.

Stanley glanced around, and picked it up from the floor. He unfolded a large, translucent sheet of paper. Fiddleford’s faint pencil lines were barely visible on it, though Stanley could begin to make out what seemed to be a design for a weapon, some kind of hand pistol. He could not understand any of the words on it, so he folded it back up and went to return it to the frame. He stopped short when he saw the back of the photograph.

_FORD & FIDDS GRADUATION! _

_The only man I’ve met who lives up to Tesla. Keep building!_

_-F_

Stanley began to blink his eyes rapidly. He had recognized the handwriting immediately. Not just Ford’s note, of course, but the first inscription as well. It was in the same hand that had sewn his name into all of his clothing and written him letters over the years. His mother had been the first one to write on the back of the photograph that Fiddleford, someone she had no relation to whatsoever, had in his room.

She had called him “Fidds.”

And Ford had mentioned Tesla. Ford _adored_ Tesla. Hell, he’d even had a picture of him next to their bed as a kid. He’d loved the guy just about as much as Stan had loved Carla McCorkle. And Fiddleford was the only man Ford had met that lived up to him?

Stanley shoved the gun plans back into the frame and slammed it into place, then he jerked open the table’s drawer so hard all the pictures fell over. The drawer contained a single key. Stanley pocketed it, sure that it would unlock Fiddleford’s study, and set the photos back up before he stormed out of the room. He tried the key on the study- it worked.

The study was more cluttered than Stan had realized. Papers covered the walls and desk, and there were several unbalanced towers of books. There were more blueprints than Stanley could even begin to process, and heaps of scrap metal all over the floor. Stanley didn’t need to check to know this had to be the messiest room in the house. Fiddleford was perhaps the most organized person he’d ever met- hell, he’d _alphabetized_ his _fridge-_ and this was completely out of character.  The room was also very poorly lit. Stan could see, but had to squint for details. It made his eyes hurt, and McGucket _definitely_ needed glasses more than him, so he had no clue how he managed to see in here.

“Alright,” Stan muttered, locking the door behind him. “You don’t know what you’re looking for, but you do know you’ll find it.”

He glanced over the contents of Fiddleford’s desk first, but didn’t see much that he could understand. It was all equations and plans. Stan tried to move as little as possible in the first drawer he checked, but the second drawer was deeper. After going through it all, he spent a good few minutes making sure he returned everything to its proper place. Strangely enough, he found a singed photograph of Ford. It seemed to old- Ford had to have been in high school, if not younger- and Stan could make out what looked like some mess of equations in the background. There was a hand around Ford’s shoulder. The rest of the image was burnt away. Stan thought he recognized it, but decided not to think anything of it, and returned it to it’s home in the drawer. He went on to the third drawer.

It was locked.

Stan tried the key on it but it did not work, and a quick check revealed that the right key was not in this room. Stan found a bit of wire on the ground and folded it to pick the lock, and after a few minutes of trying, finally got it open. It was filled with heaps of papers and a single journal. He picked it up and, to his surprise, found that the entries stopped less than halfway in. He read the final entry.

* * *

  _OCT 33_

 _I was right_ _all along._ _The infernal thing is_ _too much_ _and F_ _will not listen_ _. His ambition has consumed him and I fear for even B’s safety. I burned as_ _much_ _as I could and can only hope that anyone who might come across these papers that survived will_ _heed my warnings._ _I do not intend to look upon these papers_ _ever again_ _\- I have done my best to do away with that wretched nightmare and hope to never again need to open this drawer. I will forget_ _all of this_ _,_ _for good!_

_I pray that no one comes across F’s work_

* * *

 

Stan flipped back to the entries before it. The page immediately preceding it had been scribbled out in ink so thick that almost the entire page was black. Before that was an entry that couldn’t have been much older. Fiddleford’s writing was more slanted than Stan was used to, but he could still identify it as is. The page was a jumble of calculations, sketches, and scrawls. A very bleak diagram showed a “probability of failure” to be very high.

[IMAGE ONE](https://www.dropbox.com/s/3pvrom2ymxxov32/f%27s%20doodles%20%28doorstep%29.jpg?dl=0)

Stanley frowned at the page, unable to comprehend the meaning behind Fiddleford’s scribbles. The most he could tell was that he had written on the page once, and then over it again in an even more frenzied state. He glanced over his shoulder before finally tearing it out, shoving it into his pocket. He rifled through the other papers, but they were only blueprints, only of interest because they too contained the manic red markings. Stanley closed them back in the drawer and heard the lock click shut.

On the other side of the desk, only one drawer seemed of any interest- this one locked as well. To Stanley’s surprise, this one had a combination lock. He was not as skilled with those as he was with basic locks, and it was only after a good fifteen minutes of trying that he gave up on trying to find the password himself, and began to look around the room for a clue. He finally found it, tacked up on the wall.

[IMAGE TWO](https://www.dropbox.com/s/su4lr4aifzhjjwf/fidd%20doodles%20doorstep%202.mdp?dl=0)

Stanley pretended not to notice any meaning the letters might have held.  His last combination lock had used the letters _P-I-N-E-S._ He knelt and keyed in the letters, _S-F-O-R-D,_ S-ford, and sure enough, the lock popped open.

Inside was a swath of red velvet. Stanley’s eyes widened at the sight of it all, and he reached out to touch it. This much fabric _had_ to have been worth something. Stanley couldn’t help but wonder what he could make selling it.

He pulled the velvet out of the drawer, standing as he did so, and letting the fabric fall. It was a magnificent scarlet robe, softer to the touch than anything Stanley had ever felt before. As it unfolded, something fell onto the ground. Stanley shifted the robe to see what it was and froze.

There had been a _gun_ wrapped up inside of the robe.

Stanley scooped it up with the fabric, reluctant to touch the strange weapon, both because it was clearly dangerous, and because he didn’t want his fingerprints anywhere near the damn thing.

It was some kind of a strange pistol and, Stanley realized with a start, was similar in design to the one Fiddleford had aimed at him on the night of his arrival. It had space enough to contain bullets, he supposed, but looking at it now, he could see that it had no way to fire anything. Instead, it had some kind of lightbulb. There was something akin to a screen on the side, and knobs. He moved to touch one, the velvet still covering his hand, and found that they entered letters. Stanley tried to reset the gun as best he could, then folded up the robe. He now saw that there was a strange symbol on the hood, the same crossed out eye that covered Fiddleford’s walls and was even staked into his yard. Though Stanley would like very much to know what the symbol meant, he doubted this had anything to do with him.

Then again, his brother’s name was the code.

Stanford checked the drawer, and saw a notebook inside, also adorned with the symbol. He pulled it out and opened it. The first page read _SOCIETY OF THE BLIND EYE,_ and the first entry had no date.

* * *

  _My name is Fiddleford H. McGucket, and I wish to unsee what I have seen._

_Having come to Gravity Falls to assist a young scientist, I have come to encounter many strange sights and oddities. We began work on a dangerous project. I have finally quit, but I lay awake at night, haunted by what I’ve done._

_It is finally time to test my invention. If successful, it can perhaps be put to use by Ivan the Carnie and others (?) to better themselves._

_TEST SUBJECT ONE: FIDDLEFORD MCGUCKET_ :

IT WORKED. I can’t recall a thing!

_TEST SUBJECT TWO: IVAN THE CARNIE_

TEST SUCCESSFUL. Ivan satisfied with results!

_TEST SUBJECT THREE: MCGUCKET_

SUCCESSFUL AGAIN!

_TEST SUBJECT FOUR: IVAN THE CARNIE_

IVAN WAS MORE THAN SATISFIED.

_Having discussed the matter, Ivan and I have decided to share my invention with others in this town. With all the trauma we have faced since coming to this town, it stands to reason that others would suffer as we have and be delighted to have such an invention to use!_

_I am working on a marketable model! In the meantime, Ivan and I have started work on a select group of individuals we trust with this secret._

_I call it_ _THE SOCIETY OF THE BLIND EYE._ _We will help those who want to forget by erasing their bad memories!_

* * *

 Stanley flipped through a few more pages, but found no mention of his brother aside from the allusion to a young scientist, and the project McGucket had been helping Stanford with did not come up again.

Stanley returned the items to the drawer and sealed it shut once more. Though its contents were strange and more than fascinating, he was sure this one did not relate to his brother in the slightest.

He scanned the room a bit more before returning to the first locked drawer. Once again, he failed to comprehend the mass of papers, so Stanley pulled out McGucket’s journal and slipped it into his jacket. He would read it further when he had the time.

Stanley made sure all was as Fiddleford had left it before locking the study behind him. He returned the key to the drawer and then started downstairs and into the sitting room.

He took his seat by the small table holding up Fiddleford’s telephone. It was a newer model than Stanley had ever seen. Sitting beneath the table was a large tome. Stanley pulled it u and found the local paper’s number in less than twenty minutes.

The phone rang only once before he was answered.

_“Gravity Falls Gossiper! How can we help you?”_

“Uh, hey.” Stanley pulled the paper from his jacket. “I’m calling about an article from last October. Could I speak to, let me see- Toby Determined?”

 _“Certainly_ ! _Just a moment!”_ There was a weird noise, as if someone were shaking the phone up and down, and then the same voice spoke again. _“Toby Determined speaking!_ ”

“Oh. Well, I was sort of interested on whether or not you ever followed up on this article from the fifteenth of October, about a Mr. McGucket.”

_“Yes?”_

“Did you ever get any more information?”

_“I sure did! We ran an article sometime last month about Mr. Pines’s absence from town!”_

“Yeah, but what about their project, or their falling out?”

 _“It_ remains to be seen!” Toby said in a voice that was probably supposed to mystify him.

“Alright, well-”

_“Waitwaitwait! Why? Do you know anything? Do you have a comment? Let me grab my-”_

“No, thanks anyway.” Stan hung up. “For nothing,” he added in a mutter.

He couldn't help but think it was getting a little late. Where was Fiddleford, anyway? He normally returned before it got too dark.

Stanley returned the telephone dictionary to its shelf and hid the items he had taken out of their place under his mattress before going to check outside. To his surprise, the car was parked where it always was. It was badly parked, and he could see footprints leading away from it.

Stanley considered it for a moment before pulling on his boots. The prints were spread out curiously, and oddly shaped, as if the man had been running. A sense of alarm came over Stan, and he followed McGucket’s footprints in the snow from the car and all the way down to the lake.

It was not until he reached the shore that he saw his figure on the frozen lake. Stan swore and shouted McGucket’s name, then sprinted forward to haul him off the ice.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?!” Stanley demanded. “You know how many people die because they decide to go figure skating over deep water?” Fiddleford did not seem to hear him, remaining entirely transfixed with the lake. Stan shook him. “Answer me, you lunatic!”

Fiddleford started, then stepped away from Stanley. “Stanford, pardon me, I only-”

“It’s Stan _ley_.”

“Stan _ley_ ?” he repeated, looking dazed, and then he shook his head. “Stan _ley_ , please forgive me. I don't know what came over me.”

“Like hell you do! We should get inside before it snows again, come on.” Stanley hauled him back towards the house. “What in God’s name were you doing out there?”

“I saw something.” Fiddleford frowned at the lake, clearly distracted.

Stanley rolled his eyes. “For real?”

Fiddleford wrenched his arm away and stared at the lake, reaching up to run his hands through his hair. He was clearly agitated and to Stan he seemed the very picture of anxiety or torment. His hair was unbrushed and he had not shaved recently and, Stan could now see, his eyes were almost as shadowed as his brother’s.

“I saw something in the lake,” Fiddleford whispered, in awe. He was looking at the ice in a way that Stanley could barely comprehend and was not sure he wanted to, his eyes as unreadable and reflective as the lake itself. Indeed, he was so transfixed with it, the man seemed to have forgotten him entirely. He searched the lake for a moment, his tired eyes moving far too fast, and then suddenly standing still as if to take it all in at once. When he spoke again, Stanley could detect a note of frenzied terror in his voice. “Something _big._ ”

He turned to Stanley with wide eyes, rimmed in stark white, his pupils driven as thin as a needlepoint by his fear. His face was fearful and weary, almost desperate. It was almost enough to send Stanley into a panic, and grabbed Fiddleford’s arm again. “Come on, let's just get back inside.”

Fiddleford nodded. The two did not discuss the matter again.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly, this is one of my favorite chapters in this piece.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> following my favorite chapter is my least favorite chapter I've written for this fic

**VII.**

* * *

 Stanley finally gave up on Fiddleford, who seemed impervious to any interrogation and insisted again and again that he could not answer Stanley’s questions about his project with Stanford, feigning ignorance. Stanley continued his habit of calling on Stanford, but still had not dared to investigate his house.

It happened just before Christmas, a date that held little significance for Stanley. Fiddleford, however, took to the holiday with relish, decorating his house with tinsel and even a tree. Stanley even picked up several packages from the post office for him, sent from California and further east. How people afforded Christmas, Stanley didn’t know, but Fiddleford seemed to manage alright.

Stanford himself began to visit them almost daily, joining Stanley and Fiddleford for dinner on most nights. Fiddleford’s curious and nervous air did not seem to dwindle, though on some evenings Stanley did see it fade. Amidst the company and the holiday visits, the man seemed more cheerful than had ever before. In fact, he seemed to have almost forgotten Bill. Stanley could hardly blame him; he had forgotten Bill too. After all, Bill was long gone.

They were in the sitting room. Fiddleford had asked Stanford some question about _something,_ concerning beaches or perhaps pawn stores, and it had launched Stanley into a full blown story. Fiddleford had been wrapping a box in ribbon, finally tying off a neat bow. Stanley had just begun to shift the conversation toward the travels he hoped to take with Stanford, who was listening with a glass of bourbon, seemingly content, when his entire being suddenly shifted. Stanford shrieked and leapt up from his chair in a fit of shocking and uncontrollable fright. Some cosmic horror seemed to have overtaken him, bringing him a panic and loathing Stanley could not even begin to imagine.

 _“_ My brain! _My brain! God-_ it’s tugging _\- from beyond-_ knocking _\- clawing- that devil- even now-_ Cipher! Cipher!”

Fiddleford’s package slipped from his hands. Stanley nearly dropped his own cup, and glanced over at Fiddleford. A look of terror that almost paralleled Stanford’s had risen to his eyes.

Stanley turned back to his brother, completely at a loss. “Hey,” he said, trying to steady both his voice and heartbeat. “Stanford…”

 _“_ The pit of the nightmares _\- Iä! Teeth! The Being Whose Name Must Not Be Said…”_

His voice did not seem to awaken Stanford, but Fiddleford snapped to his senses, and bolted across the room.

“The flame! _The flame!”_

“Shh,” Fiddleford pushed Ford back into his chair. “Shh, Ford.”

“Beyond body, beyond life, in the earth- here, _there-_ never there-”

Fiddleford looked at Stanley helplessly. Stanley came out of his stupor and rushed the room in a frenzy to join him, grabbing Ford’s hand.

“Hey, Ford, it’s okay-”

“... again, again… he’s trying… I might have known… nothing can stop that force; not distance, nor magic, nor death, not even death…” Stanford seemed to calm down, and stared into Stanley’s eyes. “It comes and comes, mostly in the night… I can’t leave… it’s horrible… oh, God, Stan, if you only knew as I do just how horrible it is-”

Stanley’s throat went dry.

Stanford’s rambling quieted to a murmur, and he eventually slipped into sleep. Fiddleford exchanged a nervous look with Stanley; he could not help but think the man looked more than a little ill. He mumbled something and went upstairs in a hurry. Stanley propped his brother up with some of the pillows from the couch and Fiddleford returned with a blanket for him.

“Reckon we should call a doctor,” Fiddleford whispered.

“Yeah?”

Fiddleford bit his lip.

“We _ought_ to,” he finally said. “But what’ll be said of…”

“His sanity?” Stanley scoffed. “You’re right, huh?”

The two hovered around the sitting room for most of the night. They both seemed reluctant to exchange any other words.

Stanford awoke near midnight. Fiddleford suggested rather timidly that he take a bed upstairs, and Stanley did his best to force the room on him, but Stanford seemed eerily fine, insisting that he had to get back to his own house.

“I’ve work to attend to,” he told Stanley. “I’ve left it long enough already, if- I need my own bed, Stanley.”

“At least let one of us drive you!” Stanley insisted. “You can’t walk home in the snow.”

“I’m sure to be fine-”

“Oh, _come on._ ”

Stanley finally talked Stanford into accepting his ride. He did not think to invite Fiddleford along, assuming he would be joining them, but when he turned to ask if he was alright letting Stan drive, he had vanished. Stanford all but forced Stanley out of his house once he was inside, so Stanley drove home quickly.

Fiddleford was still tucked away in some corner, though Stanley was sure he had a good idea of which one.

He knocked on the study door; Fiddleford answered a moment later. His fingers were curled tightly around it, and he seemed reluctant to open it more than a few cracks.

“Your key,” Stanley told him holding it out. Fiddleford looked down at the key, bewildered.

“Oh,” he said. “Yes, well, you can just go ahead ‘n’ put them back on the hook where you got them.”

“Yeah, right.” Stanley took a step back. “Everything good in there?”

Fiddleford wrinkled his nose. “Yes, thank you,” he said, in an icy voice, then shut the door.

“Stanford got home safe,” Stanley called. “If you care.”

If he received a reply, he did not hear it.

Stanford did not seem to recover much over the next few days. Whenever Stanley called on him, he found his brother in the library, often grave and serious. He did his best to sit with his brother and try to speak with him, often being ignored for some fascinating book, window, or desk Stanford found interest enough to stare at, and eventually his brother always excused himself to do something before disappearing from most any room upstairs. Any mention of future plans, the house, or Bill sent Ford back into a frenzy. He seemed to have an abnormal air of _listening,_ as if he expected to pick up on some distant sound that would make things alright. It reminded Stanley of old times, in an awful way that he could feel in his stomach. He lurked around the building one night and saw Stanford coming up from the basement, his hiding place from the day, only to sleep fitfully on the couch and suffer from some sort of seizures.

Stanley passed the news onto Fiddleford when he was finally able to catch him out of the study.

“Seizures?” he asked fearfully, pushing up his spectacles.

“Yeah, pretty bad ones. I think he’s been having dreams, too.”

The two agreed. Though the marks left behind by Bill would have put Stanford in an awkward position at any hospital, the physical effect it was having on him had to be treated. They had no choice but to consult a doctor. Stanford explained the symptoms over the phone.

The physician arrived with two colleagues, _specialists_ , he said. Their very presence filled Stanley’s heart with dread, but he still spoke with them in Fiddleford’s kitchen, doing his best to leave out any mention of Bill.

“Well, that will be all, then.” The doctor slid his papers back into his bag. “We’ll be on your way to see Stanford, then.”

“Hang on,” Stanley stood up. “You can’t go see him alone.”

“I-”

“Stanley,” Fiddleford said softly. “A word?”

Stanley shot a look at the doctor as he left the kitchen.

“Stanley,” Fiddleford said.

“I don’t like the look of them.”

“You- you need to let them speak to Stanford.”

“ _Duh_! But they just- they think he’s _insane_ or something!”

“Perhaps they’re a little- _overeager,_ but you have to agree, Stanley, Stanford’s not right in the-”

“He’s not some sort of _maniac!_ And even if he was- they don’t _help_ maniacs, McGucket, they just throw them into cells like, like _criminals_ or something- I mean, you’ve heard the stories about some of those places, haven’t you?”

Fiddleford’s mouth tightened. “The sanitarium in Gravity Falls isn’t like- Danvers, or Arkham, or whatever you eastern people have-”

“Oh, right,” Stanley snorted. “The _Gravity Falls_ sanitarium must be so _lovely._ Do they have gardens? It must be a real pretty picture-”

“Stanley-”

“I saw that place, Fidds! I saw it on my train in. It was like- it was dark, even in the middle of the day! And it had one of those gigantic gates, like- like _hell_ or something-”

“He’s having _seizures,_ Stanley! They just want to speak to-”

“ _Speak_ my _ass,_ McGucket-”

“He wouldn’t listen to you! And he wouldn’t listen to _me_ either, so-”

“Listen to you _when?”_ Stanley barked. “When you sat and _watched_ all of this happen?!”

“You think I’ve been a b- _bystander_ this whole time?” Fiddleford pointed at Stanley. “And where’ve you been?! You think I’ve just sat and w- _watched_ as this happened? I’ve done what I could! I warned Stanford! I t- _told_ him he was messing with dangerous things but he didn’t listen! And when I showed him a way out he _laughed_ in my face! I handed him the answer and he _threw it right back!_ You think I’ve _liked_ watching all of heck unfold right in front of me? You think this has been easy on me? Stanford coulda backed out of all of this at any- any time, but he didn’t! And now he’s gonna face some repercossiens! Reper- I-” Fiddleford fell back, his face red, and took off his spectacles. He started to clean them furiously. “Pardon my language, Stanley, I- they just want to _speak_ to him, they hardly want to perform some kind of operation- and even if they do- do decide he needs to stay at the sanitorie-saniteeree- sanitarium, that hardly means he’ll be _killed_ or something, I mean, some time away from it could be good-”

“Fine,” Stanley snapped, folding his arms. “But I’m not letting them talk to him _alone._ You must be out of your mind if you think we’ll let them cart him away- If you think I’m just gonna abandon Ford, you’re _dead_ wrong, McGucket. _Dead_ wrong.” Stanley pushed past Fiddleford and forced open the door to the kitchen. The three men inside were all staring at him. Stanley scowled at them. “I’ll be driving you over,” he said. “So move your asses.”

Stanley was tense on the drive over, hardly speaking to the other men in Fiddleford’s car. His grip on the wheel tightened when he saw Stanford’s car in its spot on the front lawn. Against all odds, he’d hoped that his brother might have left home or driven off somewhere, but from the lights inside, he could tell that was not the case.

He parked and led the three men up the steps to his brother’s house, glancing up at the window where he had first seen Stanford, locked into Bill’s body. Hadn’t the damn thing done enough? It didn’t matter if he was gone, he was still going to take his brother away from him again.

Stanley knocked, doing his best to cover Ford’s strange eyeball door knocker. Why couldn’t he live in a normal little house with a _normal_ knocker?

Ford did not answer the door. “Probably not home,” Stanley told the doctors cheerfully. “Oh, well-”

_“Stanley, is that you? Give me a moment.”_

Stanley’s shoulders slumped.

Ford reached the door a moment later, throwing it open, and taking a clear step back when he saw the men with him.

“Who’re they?”

“No one,” Stan said. “I just- Fiddleford and me thought maybe you should talk to some people.”

“Are you from Innsmouth?” Ford demanded, reaching into his coat.

“Nah,” Stan looked over at them. “ _Are_ you?”

The doctor stuck out his hand. “You’re Stanford?”

Stanford did not move. Stanley winced. He knew that Stanford was reluctant to shake hands with anyone, for obvious reasons, and was simply hiding his deformity, but he knew how it must look to them.

Stanley was in the room when they spoke to his brother, and his spasms and terror filled his heart with a sadness he could not name. For the first time in his life, he truly pitied his brother. Ford was not like Stanley had ever seen him. He was an inconsolable mess, his eyes darting about the room, his fingers fidgeting and cracking, his teeth worrying at his lip. Stanley almost wanted to hit him. _You_ idiot, he thought, scowling at his brother, hoping the message would carry through, but Stanford never looked at one place for long. _You’re acting like a lunatic._

Stanford was taken, struggling, to the local sanitarium. Stanley protested. Fiddleford did not. Neither of them spoke that night and Fiddleford spent the next few days locked in his study or out of the house.

Stanley called on Stanford at the sanitarium as often as he could. He could hear Stanford weeping and shouting.

_“I had to do it! I had to do it! He’ll get me… He’ll get me… down there, down in the dark… in the dark, waiting… Bill! Bill! He’ll get me… Bill! Stan! Fiddleford! Mother-”_

_He doesn’t belong here,_ Stanley thought, always while wondering if there was any hope for his brother at all. It seemed to him that the asylum was certainly more harm than help; Stanford was always shaking and unable to speak coherently when he visited.

A few weeks passed.

The call came just before the new year. Fiddleford was still locked in his study- good riddance, Stan thought- so he answered the phone.

Stanford had recovered.

The surge of joy that overtook Stanley was enough to make him jump two feet into the air, punching his fist and whooping. He shouted to Fiddleford upstairs and heard his feet on the stairs.

“What is it?” Fiddleford asked, out of breath.

Stanley beamed. “We’ve been called to get Ford, grab your coat.”

Fiddleford looked shocked for a moment, and then a smile stretched over his face. “What're you waiting for? Go start up the car!”

Stanley did not need to be told twice. Several moments later, they were on the road. Stanley grinned the whole drive over. Toward the end of it, Fiddleford’s joyous humming even became song. Stanley joined in as they pulled up at the sanitarium.

The two men walked through the asylum’s doors. Stanley’s heart soared, but the moment they shut, it dropped like a stone in water, and he felt an unnamable dread overtake him, as icy as the air outside. He could not say why; his brother was _back_ , reason had returned to Stanford, and though the nurse on the phone had said his memory of the time in the asylum was foggy, perhaps it was for the best.

A swell of guilt poured into his stomach and his brother’s voice, nearly a decade old, echoed in his ears.

_“You did this, Stan!”_

Stanley stopped short. Stanford had already shunned him for one misstep. There was no telling how he would react now.

Fiddleford turned to him. “You alright?”

Stanley chuckled. “Just need to sit down. You go- get Ford, I'll meet you here.”

Fiddleford looked at him in confusion, but nodded. He approached the desk and a nurse showed him out a moment later. Stanley glanced around the room. It was dark and gray, and he didn't like the look of it.

 _I would know,_ Stan thought. _Wouldn’t I?_

Why the thought even occurred to him, he had no clue. It did not matter if he would recognize Bill in Ford’s body, because Bill was gone. Ford had told him himself. They had worked things out, and they were going to get out of this awful place.

* * *

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter I did really enjoy writing! I wish I'd made the climax longer, but... ?

**VIII.**

* * *

Fiddleford returned with Stanford shortly. Stanley looked up at the sound of their steps. Stanford looked worlds better. Stanley was honestly relieved just to see him in one piece, after the rumors he had heard about some sanitarium, though His back was straighter than Stanley ever remembered. His did look tired, his arms were held a little awkwardly at his sides, though his eyes were startlingly bright. Fiddleford, on the other hand, seemed to have slumped over. He watched Stanford with a look of terror that by now, Stanley had grown familiar with.

Stanley felt a twinge of hope when he saw his brother meet his eyes. The two men reached him, and Stanford grinned worryingly hard. It sent a strange shiver down his spine. Stanley felt awful for thinking it, but he was surely conscious of any effect this place might have had on his brother, and was reluctant to approach him.

“It's all settled,” Fiddleford said quietly and Stanford nodded.

“Rather nicely, I might add!” He elbowed Fiddleford. “Thanks to _you_ , of course. Let's get going, shall we?”

Stan nodded. “Sure.”

The three of them made their way out to the car. Ford looked up at Fiddleford, and then Stan. “Which of you is driving?”

Stanley fished the keys out of his pocket. “I've got it.”

“You’re up to it?” Stanford raised an eyebrow. “You look a little... out of sorts.”

Stanley laughed. “Yeah, you’re one to talk. Don’t worry about it, I’m fine.” He unlocked the car and sat down. Fiddleford took the passenger seat Stan, confining Ford to the back. McGucket shot Stan an incompressible look and reached out to touch his arm. Stan drove away from the sanitarium as quickly as he could.

“So, Ford, how was the looney bin?”

Ford laughed. “Don't even get me started!”

Stan could have cried with relief. Ford wasn't angry or bitter. Thank the lord. “So, you're _fully_ recovered now?”

“It would seem so. I can't even tell you what a hassle this whole mess has been. Confined to that _awful_ house.” Ford’s tone shifted suddenly, his voice rising in pitch and tightening. “I practically had to abandon _all_ I've spent my _life_ pursuing, _again,_ even _temporarily_ all because of _that-_ ” He let out a long breath of air. “But it's no matter now. All’s been resolved, thanks to _you_ of course, and I can proceed.”

“It'll be good to get out of the house,” Stanley agreed. “Speaking of that, I've been thinking. I know we agreed that we wouldn't leave town until the weather was better, but if we were to catch a decent train, we could be in Glass Shard before February. Ma’s been worried sick about you.”

“Oh, no!” Ford shook his head. “There's no way. I am sorry, but with all of this out of the way, I can _finally_ continue my work. I can't give it up now!”

Stan’s heart sunk. “You're sure?”

“Positive. I'll be damned if I let something like _this_ get the better of me. I am above it, after all.”

“Alright.” They passed through town, and Stan turned onto the road that would lead them to Stanford’s house. Fiddleford’s grip on his arm tightened, nails digging into his skin. Stanley looked over, ready to shake him off, and his heart stopped. In his other hand, Fiddleford held the strange pistol Stan had seen, apparently having pulled it from his coat. It was pressed against his chest. Fiddleford looked out at the road, his face set.

Stan hit the brake. The car screeched and then spun on the icy road. Stanley yelled and wrenched the wheel back into control, his chest heaving as he brought the car to a halt in the middle of the road. Fiddleford’s eyes were screwed shut and he murmured a few prayers.

“Perhaps I should drive,” Ford said. “Your nerves seem a little unsteady.”

Fiddleford opened his eyes and looked over at Stanley pleadingly. Stan’s heart sunk. He shot Fiddleford a look in response but now his eyes were fixed on the road, his grip on the pistol taunt enough to turn his knuckles white, and he was perfectly still. He wanted to communicate to Fiddleford that he _understood_ his fear, but he could not seem to catch his gaze. Stan looked up into the mirror instead. Stanford furrowed his brow in concern.

“Stanley, are we going to get going or not?”

 _I would know,_ Stanley wanted to tell Fiddleford. Those were his brother’s eyes, looking at him from his brother’s face. After a lifetime, he would recognize his brother’s face.

“It's the strangest thing,” Stanley told him. “But the car’s having some trouble getting started. Just give me a second.

Stanley made a show of turning the car on and off again. Why, he did not know.

“Will you be needing anything from us at all?” Stan asked.

“Cauliflornia!” Fiddleford shouted, so loudly that Stan started and braked again. All three passengers jolted forward in their seats.

“Beg pardon?” Stanford asked him.

“I will be moving back to California shortly!” Fiddleford announced.

“But you said-” Stan began, and let the sentence drop. Fiddleford did not need to know he had fused the name of a state with a vegetable.

“I’ll finally be rejoinin-ing up m-my family,” Fiddleford went on, turning to Stan. “After all this hullabaloo.”

“That’ll be nice.” Stanley started the car back up.

“And you, Stan?”

He shrugged. “Depends. Are you gonna need anything else, Ford?”

“I’m glad you mentioned it,” Ford nodded. “It has almost slipped my mind.”

“Yes?”

“There is one possession of mine, which I now find myself unable to remember the dwelling place of. I thought that perhaps I had entrusted it to one of you; it was an object of the utmost importance and I truly _ache_ to be reunited with it.”

“Nothing comes to mind,” Stan said. “What was it?”

“A book, cataloging my research in this town.”

“You never handed us a thing.” Fiddleford answered, his voice sharp.

“It must be about my house then. Are we close?”

They were. Stanley pulled up outside the gates shortly.

“My servants _were_ dismissed, correct?”

“You never told me,” Stan said coolly. “All I know is that you had me carrying letters.”

Stanford smiled far too widely. “You'll forgive my faulty memory. The past few days have brought fog to it, soon it will be crystal once more. All will be return to how it should have been. Thank you for the ride, gentlemen.”

Stanford exited the car, took several steps, and then turned back to look at them, his face suddenly icy and unreadable. Stanley rolled down his window to hear him, and Fiddleford followed suit.

“I might add, my friend, that I do recall warning you.”

His gaze was turned now upon Fiddleford, who quivered. Ford’s countenance was wretched, having contorted and twisted into a look Stan could not decipher. And yet, at once, it was calm and frightfully so, a torpid sea to trap and ensnare.

“I told you, I would not have that thing near me.” And now, a pleasant smile overtook him. “We are not the same people we were when we first met, Fiddleford, of this you can be sure. Fiddleford came to this town certain he could not be struck down, much the same as the naive Stanford who entered it. You ought to have heeded your own words and remembered Icarus.” Ford nodded at Fiddleford’s coat, and Stanley saw him curl his hands protectively around his gun. “And you ought to, perhaps, remember the blessing of Midas. The Fiddleford and Stanford who part now are both fools, and tragic ones. Perhaps they would have made it through, if only they had taken the advice of the other. And know this- what you have done with this blessing you have each and both fashioned, and what foul deeds you have and will use it for, Stanford knows all. To have forsaken your friend in such a way- could you truly have ever been his companion at all? Did you truly feel so turned away by your confidant? Stanford and Fiddleford are finally parted now. Return to California, if you can find a place there. This town is a cage, old friend, even when there is no place for you here. Let Stanford and Fiddleford be overtaken by their simple fantasties. I am sure Icarus died happy, if as he fell he remembered that the birds above him could fly.”

Fiddleford turned away from Stanford, who watched him a moment longer, before redirecting his gaze.

“Stanley,” he said. “You would do well to remember the same. Leave this place now.”

“And you?”

“My fate it my own, and never yours.”

“I don't care, Ford. I want to know what’s next for you.”

“Great things. I will enjoy the calm before this storm.”

His smile was so great, Stanley could see his gums, his teeth white under his bright eyes.

“Are you saying goodbye now?”

“For a lifetime, maybe.”

“And if I were to remain here?”

“You will not. Your life is yours to make, Stanley, make it far away from mine. We are no longer brothers; Stanford Pines is a different person than he once was. We both know, Stan, that you are neither suited for my work nor my life. You cannot aid me and I would not wish it. I have not forgotten and I do not wish to share my future.”

The words stung like ice against Stan’s heart. He opened the door to his car as Stanford rested his hand on the gate to open it.

“What are you doing?”

“Apparently I'm never going to see you again, Ford. This time I'm getting a proper goodbye.”

Stanley looked up at the house behind his brother. It still stood, more foreboding than anything he had ever seen. His eyes found the window where he had first seen Ford, then trapped in Bill’s body, Bill somewhere distant, and where his struggle with him had taken place. He now realized that he had seen Bill’s return, seen his features twist and contort.

As Stanley approached Ford, he recognized with a start his expression from earlier.

The cold shudder of shock that passed through him was both silent and invisible to any observer, but Stanley heard it, ringing in his ears and dancing in front of his eyes-

“ _There came over me- a- a- a swamping wave of sickness and- repulsion. I was frozen, petrified by the utter alienage and abnormality. I faltered, and Ford quickly wrestled the wheel away from me and had forced me into the passenger seat, but still, it took me several slow moments to realize Bill had returned into Stanford’s body, and my dear friend was surely back in Gravity Falls. It had grown dark, by now, but the blaze of his eyes- it was phenomenal.”_

_“A darkness approaches. The day is coming when all you small-minded folks know will change for the better.”_

_“... again, again… he’s trying… I might have known… nothing can stop that force; not distance, nor magic, nor death…”_

_“Perhaps I should drive.”_

_No puppet strings can hold me down so patiently I watch this town-_

_Abnormal soon will be the norm so_

_enjoy the calm_

_before the-_

Stanley punched him in the face.

Stanford looked up, wiping blood from his under his nose. “Stanley!” Stanley staggered backwards, shaking his hand out to numb the pain. “What on Earth was that for?!”

“Slipped,” Stanley retorted. “My bad.”

Stanford scoffed. “You ought to be more careful, Stanley, _really._ God knows this isn’t the first time your carelessness has cost me-”

“Yeah,” Stanley muttered. “Right. See ya around, Ford.”

“I hope not.”

Stanley winced and took a step back.

“Well,” Stan said. “Have a great year, I guess.”

 _Could_ it be Bill in Stanford’s body? He had been almost sure. Now, he wanted desperately to be certain, but did not know what to think.

Ford nodded and turned. His eyes seemed to flash, his pupils waxing and waning from the sides, and Stanley recoiled. That was it, then. Whatever the case, Bill or not, he had surely lost Stanford for good. Stanley sighed and turned away as well.

A shot rang out loud and clear. Ford turned in surprise, his eyes going not to the shooter nor the weapon, but rather, to track the bullet as it approached him. Stanley shouted in surprise and Ford made a strange gesture, as if he were reaching for the bullet, before it collided with his shoulder. He collapsed against the iron gate, his face unnaturally white. Stanley yelled and raced over to Stanford.

“Ford!”

He grabbed ahold of his brother and pulled him into his arms, turning to Fiddleford for help. “Fidds!”

Stanley’s eyes found the inventor already outside of the car, apparently having exited while Stanley was speaking to Ford. A smoking pistol- a _real_ one, not the strange one he carried around- was in his hands.

“Where the hell did you get that?!” Stanley shouted.

“Car,” Fiddleford said calmly.

“Jeez, you’re a piece of work!” Stanford sat up, still grinning, and pushed Stan away. “I didn’t know you had it in you! _”_ He started to laugh unnaturally.

Stanley scrambled backwards, looking to Fiddleford in horror. “Is it- it-”

Stanford’s eyes burned, almost glowing against the dark day. He stood up, clawing at the gate for support and clutching his shoulder as blood began to seep through his shirt. “Are you trying to kill me?!” he shrieked, his voice tight. “That's adorable!”

“Leave this town!” Fiddleford shouted. “There's no place for you here! Return to Innsmouth, spectre!”

“Innsmouth?” he repeated, cackling. A violent cough passed over him before he repeated _“Innsmouth!_ Return to _Innsmouth_? I _made_ Innsmouth! I made everything you see now! You can banish me from your head, pal, but never your _world_!”

The gate swung open under his weight. Fiddleford fired once more, this time hitting him in the leg. Stanford screamed as he fell, then broke off into more laughter.

“Good riddance, _fool_ ,” he spat. He pushed himself up, wheezing, and beamed. “And good luck! Good day, Fiddleford! Say hi to the _family_!”

Stanford turned and limped up into the house.

“Bill?” Stanley asked, as the door opened.

Fiddleford shuddered. “Dead now, I hope. Crawled off to die alone.”

“But Ford-”

Fiddleford made a strange sound, and pulled his other pistol from his coat. He clutched it against his chest and closed his eyes. He seemed to be having a private moment.

Fiddleford blinked open his eyes, shoving the weapons into his coat. “Let’s be off. I long to rid my head of his foul experience.”

Stanley looked back up at his brother’s house. All of the lights were off.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter count has gone down! I expect it to stay at 12 now. I hope none of you were especially invested in a spooky set of 13 chapters. Maybe I'll create a final epilogue or prologue that includes the letter Ford sent Stan... hmm. I may edit the first chapter to reflect a specific detail/moment in chapter 11. The woes of a writer- foreshadowing can be hard to come by until all the events are set in stone.
> 
> get pumped, because this is the chapter where the TITLE STARTS TO MAKE SENSE

**IX.**

* * *

 There were still packages sitting under the tree, unopened. There had been no talk of Christmas after Ford was incarcerated.

Stanley picked up a package, addressed to his brother in McGucket’s looping scrawl. Fiddleford was upstairs, busy once again in his study.

That was the first night after he shot Bill. They each passed it alone. All that day and the next Stanley racked his brain over the problem. What had happened? What sort of mind looked out through those alien eyes in Stanford’s face? He could think of nothing but this dimly terrible enigma, and even Fiddleford seemed to give up all efforts to perform his usual work. By evening Stanley felt close to a nervous collapse.

On the second night, close to midnight, Stanley received the call. He answered the phone, being in close proximity, and heard only silence.

“Hello?” he prompted. No one seemed to be there, and Stanley was ready to hang up and go to bed, when he heard a faint suspicion of sound on the other end. Perhaps someone was having difficulty speaking.

There bubbled up an indescribably awful liquid sound, that made Stanley’s hairs stand on end.

_“Glub… Glub… Glub…”_

They had the odd suggestion of words, unintelligible as they were.

“Who’s there?” Stanley asked.

_“Glub-Glub… Glub…”_

“Can't hear you pal, better hang up and try information.”

Stanley heard them hang up.

He watched the phone for a moment, uncertain, when he turned at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Fiddleford appeared.

“Are you going out?” Stanley asked, taking in his coat and bag.

“I’ve got to meet up with some people,” he said stiffly. “Stanley, I just-” Fiddleford stepped toward him, then back again. “You've asked about Ford’s project. I- I really can't tell you a thing about it. He believed it would do great things but he was _wrong_. It was too powerful, unstable, a horror- do not ask me about it ever again. That is _truly_ all I can tell you.”

He turned up his collar and left the house. Stanley saw red velvet peaking out of his bag.

Stanley returned to his room and did his best to fall asleep. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Stanford, or Bill, or _whatever_ that thing was, laughing as he pulled himself up into the house, probably for the last time-

Or his brother, fighting as he was taken away to the asylum-

Guilt settled over Stanley’s stomach, flat and twisted. He rolled over and pulled his pillow over his eyes.

He did not get to sleep, but he did fall into a sort of silent trance, a kind of sick rest, that remained unbroken until he became aware of a sound. Stanley blinked open his eyes, and threw off his blanket and pillow. His room was pitch black, and roused from his slumber, he felt disoriented and more than a little unsettled. He could not quite remember where he was. This was _not_ a room that was his, he knew that much.

There came the sound- the doorbell, ringing again, and then again. Stanley grabbed a jacket off of his floor and hurried out of the door.

Maybe it was the owner of the place- he rubbed his head. Fiddleford McGucket, coming back, or maybe Ford?

“I’m coming!” Stanley hollered, racing down the stairs. He heard a knocking on the door, curiously weak- _tap tap tap_ \- then the doorbell rang again. “I hear you!”

He turned the corner and pulled the door open. “Seriously, I-”

The stench hit him first, and before Stanley could even hope to make sense of the thing before him, he took a step back. A sense of nausea came over him, so strong was the smell, and then he saw the creature before him, humped over in a strange fashion.

The caller had on a long coat that Stanley thought he might have seen on his brother before, but the bottom traced the ground, and the sleeves were rolled up over brittle wrists. A slouch hat was pulled over their face, and a black silk muffler obscured anything else from view.

Stanley stepped forward, one hand reaching for the doorknob, in case this was some sort of psychopath. “Hey,” he started.

_“... Glub glub…”_ they said, in a voice similar to the one Stanley had heard on the phone, and was sure he had heard elsewhere. They thrust forward a hand and in it, Stanley saw a piece of paper impaled upon a pencil. He reached to take it, but found the hand curiously unwilling to part with it. He finally tore it and the pencil free. _“Gluh-”_

Stanley edged backwards for better lighting, the darkness of the outside world seeping in.

His breath hitched as he saw the note. It was written, without a doubt, in Stanford’s script. There was his _S_ , his hastily crossed _Ts_ \- but why was it so clumsy, so coarse, so shaky?

* * *

 S & F

Go to the sanitarium and kill it. Exterminate it. It isn’t Stanford Pines any more. He got me- it’s Bill- and he should have been dead. Left below the ground with the other work- He’d have had me for good before now. I sent them all off, but God knows what they and the others will do.

I thought it would be alright before I felt the tugging at my brain. I knew what it was—I ought to have remembered. A soul like his is only half attached, and carries on after death as long as the body lasts. He was getting me- making me change bodies with him- seizing my body and putting me in the cellar-

I knew it was coming, that’s why I snapped and had to go to the asylum. Then it came, I found myself choked in the dark, down there in the cellar under the boxes where I put it. And I knew he must be in my body at the sanitarium, sane, and ready for release as a menace to the world. I was desperate, and in spite of everything I clawed my way out.

I’m too far gone to talk. I’ll get fixed up somehow and bring you this last word and warning. _Kill that fiend_ if you value the peace and comfort of the world. _See that it is cremated._ If you don’t, it will live on and on, body to body forever, and I can’t tell you what it will do. Keep clear of black magic, it’s the devil’s business.

Goodbye- you’ve been great friends. Tell the police whatever they’ll believe—and I’m sorry to have dragged this fiend into our lives. I’ll be at peace before long. This thing won’t hold together much more. Hope you can read this. _And kill that thing—kill it_.

Yours

Ford

* * *

 The world seemed to spin as Stanley looked up, and he realized he had fallen to his knees. The stranger was nowhere to be seen, though he could still smell the traces of terror, and when Stanley looked back down as stood, he saw what had become of him.

He did not expect to find a pulse, but he checked nonetheless, and then pulled off the cap. The face was dark with death, and swollen, red and black in some places, and pale in the others. Yet somehow, it must have been perfectly preserved, as Stanley recognized instantly the face that had belonged to that person from the window, Bea, dead now, dead for who knew how long.

The body twitched. Stanley shouted and staggered backwards, throwing himself against the far wall.

A sigh came out of the body, a sigh he _knew_ was unnatural, otherworldly, a sound that was wholly _wrong_ , and the eyes creaked open. Stanley did not know whether to expect the gaze of his brother or the blazing eyes of the monster, and he did not wait to find out. Let Ford knock again; three times would mean it was him. He slammed the door shut and did up each of Fiddleford’s locks, then collapsed against it.

There came no knock, only a faint hiss, and when Stanley looked through the peephole, the eyes were shut once more.

Stanley stayed, frozen, against the door. Against all odds, he had somehow doubted Bill. In the back of his mind, he had managed to believe that there was some other explanation for this horror, whether his own brother’s mind coming up short, or the influence of a town too strange to comprehend. Gravity Falls, Innsmouth, _all_ of this whole state- he’d had enough of it. _Enough._

He was shaking when he finally heard the door begin to rattle. There was a pounding upon it, and then it began to shake. There was no bubbling, so sighs or hisses, just screaming, shouting- his name.

Stanley sprang up, his heart hammering in his chest, and undid all the locks with shaky fingers. He pulled the door open, and Fiddleford came with it, gripping the doorknob so tightly that he could not seem to let go. There were tears in his eyes, and fear was etched into his every feature.

“Dear _God!”_ he wailed, stumbling back into the hall, turning. “What in the name of- on my- in front of _my_ door, on my step-”

“Fidds,” Stan croaked. “It’s- I- look-”

He held out the note, still held tightly in his hand. Fiddleford grabbed it and read it quickly, and had scarce finished before he started shrieking.

_“No!”_ he crumpled up the note and shoved it back at Stanley, shaking his head. “No no _no!_ I’m washing my hands of all this mess! I said I would! I _have_ to- Burn it! We’ll burn them both _now,_ or never, come on-”

Fiddleford turned on his heel, shuddering at the sight of the corpse before his door.

“ _Burn_ them?!” Stanley repeated.

“You saw it!” Fiddleford pulled his coat around him, trembling. “He _wants_ it! Time to do away with that monster for _good!_ Burn this one, and whatever’s left of him back at his shack- I should have burned it before but I was too afraid, too hopeful, but I will not let it get away, or else it might come after me, it- to think I’ve held onto this for so long- I ought to clear my mind for _good-_ ”

“Burn!” Stanley leapt in front of him. “Hang on now, don’t you realize? Ford’s out there! He’s alive!”

“Can’t you _read?_ There’s nothing left! This- God awful- this _thing_ on the doorstep is all that remains of him now!”

“No, we have a chance! He made it here, didn’t he?”

“He made it _here!”_ Fiddleford squawked. “Of _course_ he made it here! Didn’t even have the sense to die by my _gate!_ Even in _death_ he’s determined to ruin- I won’t let this be my downfall- I’ll do away with it, I will-”

“McGucket-”

“I’ll do away with it, you hear me Stanley?!”

“McGucket!” Stanley roared. “Don’t you _see?_ He trusts you, he’s putting his fate in our hands, he’s _counting_ on us- you’re the only person beside me he’s ever-”

“Trust me? _Trust_ me? He never trusted anyone except that _demon!_ He never counted on me, quite the opposite, well I’ve had my _fill,_ I’m sick of being left behind by him to clean up all his messes, to face all of the terrors so he doesn’t have to, _look_ at what he’s _done_ to me, to my family, _God-_ no, I won’t go!” Fiddleford stepped backward, shaking his head. He seemed to no longer be speaking to Stanley. “This isn’t my problem! This was _never_ my problem! I’m sick of all of this, sick! Time to do away with Bill and Ford for good! I’ll clear my head of this!”

He wrenched open his bag, still held tight in his free hand, and started to rummage through it. The red velvet came spilling out, but he did not seem to care. He fell onto the floor, still looking, and his spectacles began to slip sideways.

“McGucket,” Stan said. “Fidd-”

“Quiet!” Fiddleford yelled, and then pulled out his curious pistol, the one with the bulb, and held it up with a crazed look in his eyes. He fiddled with it, spinning it toward himself first and then toward Stanley.

Stan took a step back, holding up his hands. “McGucket- Fidds-”

Fiddleford’s hands fell, and he cradled it to his chest. He looked up at Stanley with wide, sorrowful eyes.

_“You,”_ he said. “Stanley, I can’t offer you any more kindness. Surely you know this is not your home.”

“F-”

McGucket sighed, and stood. “Your whole family’s brought me nothing but trouble. I want you out of this house before morning, you hear me? Or I’ll call the police. Do you understand?”

“Fiddleford,” Stanley said. “ _Fidds._ ”

“Do you _understand?_ ”

“Fidds,” Stanley said again, his voice stronger this time. “I d- I can’t _leave_ yet. I still don’t even- I don’t know what you and Ford were even working on. Whatever happened between you two?”

Fiddleford reached up to fix his tie. His pistol hung in one hand. He knelt to pick up his bag, and then straightened. When he looked at Stanley, his eyes had gone cold.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, in a voice with no feeling. It was akin to ice. “I don’t remember why it ever did.” He shook his head, and a single sound of weakness escaped him, almost a whimper. Then his voice was cold once more. “I wish I’d never met your brother.”

He turned and disappeared up the stairs.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for all of your support and I'm sorry for the delayed update! we're reaching the home stretch- 3/4 of the way through the story! I may pull some shenanigans like a hiatus before the final update to build up the drama but... we should be finished soon! Holy heck! I can't believe it! Happy December!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is long overdue! only two chapters left, I can't believe it. working on this fic has been such an amazing experience... hopefully they'll be more lovecraft aus by the way!!!! I've loved hearing your feedback and seeing how many people have enjoyed this story.
> 
> if you celebrate it, merry christmas!!!!

**X.**

* * *

 Stanley left early the next morning. He packed his few possessions carefully, then shoved the blankets and sheets from Fiddleford’s guest room into his bag.

Stanley crept down the stairs. He went to check McGucket’s room, with the notion that they might at least share a goodbye before the sun rose, but the man’s bed was empty. Stanley approached it to check. It was still made, not even slept in. There was only one frame on his desk, knocked over. Stanley turned and headed toward the study.

The door was locked. He picked it easily, and found his brother’s old partner slumped over on his desk.

Stanley approached him wearily. The pistol was in his open hand. Laying on the desk was the photograph of Stanford, and draped over his chair was the red velvet robe.

He reached toward Fiddleford, then let his hand fell. If McGucket wanted to hate him and Ford, let him. Stanley was through with the man. Perhaps he had liked him at one point, he might have even been grateful for everything he had done for him and his brother, but all of that was gone now. All that remained now was his chilly tone and frozen eyes from the night before.

Stanley picked up the photograph and stuffed it, frame and all, into his bag. If Fiddleford wished he had never met them, so be it. He would do his part to help make his wish come true.

He looked at the red velvet for a moment, until a surge of anger sufficient enough came over him, and then he grabbed it too. He was tempted to smash the bulb on his pistol, but that might be taking things too far.

Stanley stole downstairs and went through most of McGucket’s living room and kitchen. He found some loose change and a few pieces of silverware, and then he left the house for good.

He winced at the sight of the thing on the doorstep, and hauled it out to McGucket’s car. He dashed back inside to take his keys, promising himself that he would return the car once he had the body back up at Ford’s house. He first dumped Bea in Stanford’s lawn then found he did not want to spare the time for McGucket, so instead he left the car in front of the police department, the keys on the dashboard, then trekked back to the old shack.

Stanley dragged Bea up the stairs and into the house. “Ford?” he called, opening the door. “Bill? Anyone here?”

He let go of Bea’s wrist, and went upstairs. He checked every room he could think of, and then returned to check the main floor. He finally went to check the basement.

The door opened before he could knock.

Stanford staggered out, clutching his shoulder.

“Ford?”

He winked and stumbled past Stanley into the kitchen. Stanley stood, unsure, for a moment before he followed him.

_Bill,_ he thought, helplessly.

Bill threw open the fridge and pulled out a bottle. He tore off the cap with his bare hands, then tipped his head backward and poured it into his mouth, and then over his face. When it was empty, he threw it away. Stanley flinched as it flew past him. It smashed against the wall, far too close for comfort, and shattered. Bill turned and began to tear open drawers, muttering.

Stanley searched his brain desperately for something to say, but nothing came.

“You looking for something?”

Bill slammed the drawer shut, catching Stanford’s six fingers. Stanley winced.

“I tried _asking_ where it was,” Bill snapped. “But you seemed reluctant to share.”

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about,” Stan informed him. “What the hell do you want with Ford _now_?”

“You _know,_ Stanley, I _know_ that you do- who else could he have-” A dark expression passed over Bill’s face, _Ford’s_ face. “Fidds-”

“He sure as hell didn’t leave anything with _McGucket,_ ” Stan snapped. “I’d die before trusting that asshole. He’s off his rocker.” That made Bill snigger. “Besides, even if he _did_ , he’s probably thrown it out by now.”

“You’re a real idiot, you know that, Stan?”

“I know, I’ve heard it before. The hell are you even trying to find?”

“I’m looking for a special book,” Bill said, holding up his hands. “About this big?”

“I know where Ford hid some of his books,” Stan told him. “But I’m not gonna tell you.”

“Oh, I think you will, Stanley.”

“Of course I _will,_ ” Stan said. “But not right now.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to leave my fucking brother alone, Bill.”

“Out of the question,” Bill smiled. “I’ve worked too hard to let go of this vessel _now._ ”

“Can’t you just get a new vessel?”

“I don’t care about the vessel,” Bill told him. “I care about the _house._ ”

“Why the hell do you care about the house? It smells like shit. Can’t you just get a new vessel and break into the house?”

“Huh. Alright, fine” Bill said. “You’ve convinced me. Show me the book and I’ll be on my way.”

Bill held out Ford’s hand. Stanley narrowed his eyes and shook it.

“He had some books upstairs.” Stanley turned and hurried to the staircase. Bill followed him at an uncomfortably short distance. Stan fancied that he could feel his breath on his neck and his feet near his heels, though he knew there was still space enough to divide them.

In his room, Ford’s bed was unmade. The air, however, felt stale, as if it had not been breathed in a long time. It looked as if someone had turned the place upside down. In search for something, maybe. He looked at Bill through the corner of his eye.

Stan found Ford’s coat on the floor, and picked it up. Bill frowned at the pile of books underneath it.

“Where’d they come from?”

“Library.”

“Not quite what I was hoping for.”

“Too bad.”

Bill crossed over to pick up one of the books. He sighed and dropped it. It hit the stack with a loud _thump,_ knocking most of the pile across the floor. “Return these to the library.”

“You don’t want them?”

“They’re useless, at the moment.”

“Okay, great. So can you fuck off now?”

“You will return them, Stanley Pines.”

“Not till you leave.”

“Do not disappoint me, kid.”

“Yeah, yeah. Wouldn’t dream of it, pal.”

“I’ll be watching you, Stanley Pines.” Bill smiled at him, the eerie grin taking over Stanford’s face, his eye crinkling up at the corners and still remaining cold. Stanley shivered at the expression. “Don’t forget about me. Your brother tried to. It was a mistake.”

Then the smile faded and his bright eyes faded, rolling up into his head. His body shook vigorously. Stanley rushed to catch it as it fell forward. Stanford was terribly, terribly light.

He felt for a pulse under his jaw and find it. The wave of relief Stanley felt was so great, he nearly wept.

Screw Fiddleford. He had been wrong. And screw Bill, he was _gone,_ and _screw_ that thing on the doorstep. Stanford was alive. Bill was gone and Stanley’s brother was _alive._ Stanley hugged Ford to his chest, his breath hitching, and collapsed onto the floor. He squeezed Ford as if he might lose him and buried his head in his shoulder. His brother was here. His brother was fine. Stanford was actually find.

The moment was broken by a sound.

Stanley’s eyes snapped open at the soft noise, and his heart thundered to a halt. He sat, frozen for a moment, until he heard another noise. A gentle _thump._

Moving slowly, with great deliberation, Stanley sat Ford aside, laying his body on the floor. He rose first onto his knees, then one, and then he stood. There was another gentle noise.

_No no no-_

Stanley stepped out of the room, terror taking hold of his heart. He felt ice spreading inside of him, greater than the chill outside. His mind flashed to the body he had left downstairs as he walked down the hall. He crept down the hallway, trying not to make a single sound, hoping against hope that it was just the damn house creaking. Stanley did his best to swallow his fear as he reached the top of the staircase, and began his descent.

The walk was painfully long, but as he drew nearer to the end of it, he found himself wishing it to be longer. He saw nothing of consequence as he stepped off the staircase, but his nerves remained unsteady as he ventured further away from the safety of upstairs and into uncertainty.

Bill could not still be here. Bea could not still be kicking. That would simply be unacceptable. That would simply be- be-

The front door finally came into view, and Stanley stopped short.

The door hung open.

He stared at it, almost unable to process what was in front of his very eyes. The body was gone, though he could still smell it. Stanley turned around to look back down the hallway. A few more doors were open, though he could not remember which had been when he left the body.

Bile rose in his throat, and Stanley felt like being sick as he threw the door open.

Bea’s body was crumpled on the front lawn, having apparently fallen as they fled. Their hand was still stretched toward the gate.

Stanley raced over, then came up short. The form was clearly dead, containing no signs of life, least of all Bill’s bright eyes.

_But if Bill’s not here-_

Stanley turned and took in the open door, and the upstairs room. Had the light been on when he and Bill first entered? Had Stanley turned it on when he first walked through? Or had it just flickered on now?

_Stanford-_

He raced back up the steps and stumbled. Somehow, he had failed to notice the case of gasoline that had fallen over. Glaring into the house, Stanley set his jaw.

“I’ll burn you!” he roared. “You hear me, Bill? I’m going to smoke you out!”

He grabbed the case and sprinted back to the body, wrenching it open. Blood was rushing through his ears. Some of the gasoline spilled, though his hands were still as he held it out.

“There’s no place for you here!”

Stanley poured the gasoline over the body, and then dropped it to the ground. His hands went to his pockets for a lighter, a match, _something,_ but found none. A month ago he wouldn’t have been caught dead without a match, but now, he could not find a single one.

He snatched the gasoline and turned to dash back inside. He dropped the canister on the porch and grabbed the doorframe.

“Are you here, Bill? I’m coming to kill you! So get down here!”

He grabbed the canister and waited for a reply, but received none. Stanley braced himself for whatever was coming, and spared one last glance as Bea’s corpse, soon to be ashes.

His breath caught in his throat.

The world seemed to flicker on and off, and he was falling forward through gray and more gray and-

_“Need a hand?”_

There was a pull in Stanley’s chest, and he had the strangest of vertigo. Suddenly, he had the most curious sense that he was looking at himself through someone else’s eyes.

He tried to blink. He failed.

Stanley’s own body stared back at him from the porch, clutching the gasoline to his chest. Everything seemed blissfully still. He was cold. The Stanley looking back at him had bright, burning eyes. Too bright. _Yellow._

“God, Stanley!”

The door was flung open with more force than Stanley would have thought possible. Ford pushed Stanley- the one on the porch- aside. “Get out of my way! Get out of here!”

_Ford,_ Stanley tried to say, but the sound made only a scratch in his throat. He tried again.

He managed to blink.

Ford was racing toward him, holding _something_ , and then three shots rang out and Stanley was not cold anymore, far from it, he was _hot,_ so hot, burning-

Stanley tried to say Ford’s name again.

_“Glub.”_

Stanley felt _real_ fear now, not the unease left behind by Bill, but actual mortal peril. He tried to move his eyes, to lock gazes with Ford, with himself- _Bill-_ but could only shake his head.

He saw his own face _smiling_. He saw his own gums.

_No-_

Stanley suddenly felt his own body shaking, and he stumbled forward. Ford ran to catch him.

“Stanley!”

Stanley sputtered and looked up at the lawn. Bea’s body was burning a hole in the snow.

“Oh, God,” Stanley muttered. “I’m going to be sick.”

“Stan-”

Stanley lurched forward and vomited onto the ground.

He stood up unsteadily, Ford holding tight onto his arm. Stanley wiped his mouth. “Is it… you?”

“It’s me.”

“Thank God.” Stanley grabbed Ford. “You scared the shit out of me, asshole.”

“I’m sorry, I wanted to warn you. It was terribly rude of me to die on your doorstep but-”

“Screw the thing on the doorstep!” Stanley shouted. “You scared the hell outta me _just_ now. God, never set me on fire again!” He broke out into laughter. “Jeez, that was awful. That was really something. That Bill guy! Piece of-”

“Stanley?”

Stanley looked up at Ford. His brother was staring at him with unnaturally wide eyes.

“Yeah?”

“Are you alright?”

Stanley bit his lip and nodded. “Yeah. Let’s just go inside. We both smell like death.”

“And a little like fire.”

“Heh. Yeah.”

* * *

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness, 2017 already! Only one chapter left after this, so I may let it rest a little longer before the final update. However, I might try to arrange a playlist beforehand, so feel free to comment or contact me on Tumblr if you happened to have a suggestion!
> 
> I'm really excited about this chapter. I'm sure it's predictable- it won't be long before you know what's going to happen- though I hope the final installment will still have a few unexpected moments. 
> 
> Also: I reference a few earlier moments from the fic in this chapter, one of those is a specific line from one of the illustrations I couldn't manage to post. The links can be found in chapter 6.
> 
> Thank you so much for all the positive feedback and support for this fic! Only one update left!

**XI.**

* * *

Stanley slept fitfully that night. His brother’s house offered little comfort, certainly less than McGucket’s had the night previous. He found his mind afflicted by dreams of all variety. He remembered his youth in New Jersey, playing on the shores of Glass Shard Beach, and pointing to waves on a distant shore. He remembered being pushed out of his home while Stanford watched from the window, he could recall letters and letters from his mother with word _of_ him and never any word _from_ him. Stanley found himself cradling the photograph he had taken from McGucket, already stripped of its frame, and staring at the writing on the back. Ten years with no word from Stanford. He remembered Bill behind Stanford’s eyes, telling him to build his life far away, that he had not forgotten what he had done.

He tried to sleep once again but felt a strange sensation in his head, as if someone were pulling at the fabric of his mind and stretching it taunt. When he dared let his eyes close he saw images in rapid succession- the door hanging open, the thing on the doorstep, his brother with eyes too bright, Ford aiming a pistol toward him and then, always, Stanley heard his throat fail to answer him with real words. He heard a voice whispering that Ford had been ready to kill him, though he could not have known- but he _had_ done it. Stanley could still smell fire. His mind flashed to McGucket’s frenzied notes.

* * *

  _I was right all along. The infernal thing is too much and F will not listen. His ambition has consumed him and I fear for even B’s safety. I burned as much as I could and can only hope that anyone who might come across these papers that survived will heed my warnings. _

* * *

Stanley was not sure why he entered the kitchen that morning. Assumption, perhaps. But Ford was not in the kitchen, and neither was breakfast.

He next found himself in his bedroom. When he looked through the window, the snow had covered any trace of yesterday’s flames. Stanley felt an odd tugging in his mind and hurried quickly away.

He met Stanford on the staircase. He was so engrossed in his reading he did not notice Stan and nearly ran him over. He leapt back and clutched his book to his chest.

“Have you come to steal my eyes?!” he demanded.

“Woah.” Stanley put a hand on his shoulder. “Calm down, pal.”

“Stanley! You're still here.” Ford’s shoulders slumped with relief. “I’ve been- that is-”

“Sixer?”

Ford’s features twisted into a scowl that perhaps frightened Stanley even more than Bill’s grin. “Don’t call me that.” Stanley started and the grimace passed. “I need your help, Stanley, it's why I wrote you in the first place. I must complete thi- that is, I-”

“Are you going to explain what’s going on, Ford? You’re acting like Mom after ten cups of joe.”

Ford pulled away from Stan’s hand. “It’s- I-”

“Ford?”

Ford nodded, his expression hardening. “There isn’t much time. I’ve made _huge_ mistakes, Stan, and I don’t know who I can trust anymore.”

“Easy,” Stan said, in the most assuring tone he could muster. He didn’t like the way Ford’s eyes had grown cold, or the stiffness in his brother’s shoulders. “Let’s talk this through, okay?”

Ford looked down at his book and tightened his grip on it. “I have something to tell you.” He turned his gaze upwards and met Stanley’s eyes. “Something you won't believe.”

“I’ve been around the world, Ford. Whatever it is, I’ll understand.”

Ford seemed to freeze. He nodded to himself and swallowed before turning wordlessly and hurrying back down the staircase. Stanley followed him and was led, to his shock, past the main floor and to the basement his brother so often frequented.

Ford pulled a set of keys from his coat and fumbled to unlock the door. He was, Stan could see, trembling violently, and struggling to match his keys to the correct lock and then to position them. He finally turned it into the first lock and Stan breathed an audible sigh of relief before realizing his brother had two more locks ahead of him. He stepped forward to offer him help but Stanford shouldered him aside before any words could leave him. Stanley watched helplessly as Ford wrangled with the keys in his hand and finally, after great trial, the locks were all undone. Stanley let out a contented sigh but Ford did not seem appeased. Ford had little strength, but he wrenched the knob sideways and the door opened. He beckoned Stanley and stepped through it, taking a lantern from a hook inside before turning down the stairs.

Stanley followed him at the closest distance he could. Never before had he so desperately wished that, like most sane people, Stanford feared the dark. But Stanford did not fear the dark, he never had. He had always preferred a transfixion with the things just outside the light cast by his lantern. If he could just be satisfied by the world around him, Stanley thought, they would never have been thrown into this mess. Hell, Stanley might never have been thrown out of the house.

Stan immediately felt guilt grab his heart. To think something like that of _Stanford_ was cruel of him. He pushed any resentment as far from his mind as he could.

 _But you've never been enough for him,_ a voice inside him seemed to go on. _Ford’s always wanted more._

It didn't matter, Stanley reminded himself. This would all be over soon, in any case. Then it would be away to the ocean, as he and Ford had always dreamt.

“Creepy staircase,” Stan said, trying to get a reply from his brother.

“Yes, yes,” Ford replied absentmindedly. “Dan built all of it.”

Stanley had no idea what that meant. “Who the hell is Dan?”

“Oh, the lumberjack,” Ford informed him, as if that carried meaning. “You know.”

“Uh, no, actually.”

“Mm,” Ford murmured, as if everything had been cleared up, and the conversation dropped. Ford came to a sudden halt. Stan stopped abruptly. Surely the staircase had not ended. He saw no basement opening up in front of him. Was Ford so anxious that his basement had two doors? Were two doors common? Stanley had no idea how long stairways to basements were even supposed to be.

There was a rattling sound, and Stanley leaned around Stanford to see that he was opening the door to, of all things, a _lift._ How deep did his brother’s house go?

The answer was: impossibly deep. The grate shut them into the lift, it stuttered and shook, and then they were going down for far longer than Stanley could have anticipated. What on Earth was his brother about to show him? Was some new mystery about be unveiled?

Or maybe, Stan realized, his heart quickening, this would be it. This would be what he had been missing, whatever had driven Fiddleford away from Stanford because _surely_ there was more to this than Bill. Stanley remembered the man’s scribbles and ravings.

* * *

  _His ambition has consumed him and I fear for even B’s safety. I burned as much as I could and can only hope that anyone who might come across these papers that survived will heed my warnings._

* * *

What could McGucket have been going on about? What could have made him fear for even the safety of Bill or, perhaps, the isolated Bea?

The door to the lift opened, and Stanley prepared himself for whatever was to come.

The stench hit him first; that same unconquerable smell from the doorstep and then-

_Another hallway._

This one, however, was brief. Stanford hurried through it and Stanley rushed along after them. They turned into a dark room. Stanley could barely make out the desks, though he was sure he saw the shapes of some of Stanford’s equipment on them. A faint light was coming from further into the room and, as his eyes adjusted, Stanley realized that all of Ford’s things were strewn about. Nothing had been gathered up. He had made no preparations for their departure. And where in God’s name was that light coming from?

Stanley squinted. There was a strange shape by one of the desks, something like a hieroglyphic. He now realized that the room was bordered by windows and behind it- the light that was cast upon them now.

“Jesus,” Stan muttered, reaching to cover his nose. “It smells like death in here.”

“Yes, that is- well- I _had_ to, you understand.” Ford set aside the lantern he was carrying and began to comb his hands fervently through his hair.

“... What?”

“I had no choice! He would have _had_ me, Stan, by now if not sooner! I had a moment of opportunity and I had to-”

“Hang on there,” Stan reached out to steady his brother. “What are you talking about?”

“Bea!” Ford dragged his hand over his face, covering his eyes. “Bea, Bea, Bea! _Bill!_ Bill in that horrible vessel, I had a moment of hope but he was _waiting_ for me when I got home, I drove here, _drove_ , me, can you believe it- but I couldn’t set foot in the house, Stanley! I had no way! So I went around to the back door and he chased after me, shrieking, all the way down here and I- I waited for him, waited here, and when he reached me I hit him over the head and he attacked me, Stan, it was self-defense after that, I closed my wrists around Bill’s neck and-”

“I get it!” Stan raised his voice. “I get it, you killed Bill!”

“No, no, no! Bea, Stan!”

“Same difference-”

“No, Stan, he _left_ her, how else could he still be here, I- I should have burnt him them- oh, God.” Ford shook his head desperately, still covering his face.

“Hey, it’s _okay_ , Ford,” Stanley promised. He was not sure how to feel about this new, panicked confession- he had assumed Bill had done away with the body once he realized it was dead, but he put this aside. He would walk Ford through it another time. “Was that what you wanted to show me?”

“No, no I-” Ford shook his head, and then pulled himself together. His hand fell to his side. “This way,” Stanford said hoarsely, and started to the door that would lead out of the room.

What the hell? What else could he have in his basement?

Stanley stepped after Ford into a vast stretch of _nothing_ and then, suddenly, a hulk of _something_ that he failed to comprehend. It was a work of machinery, he could see that much, stretched out in his brother’s _basement,_ of all places. A triangle, with some sort of a circle cut through it, glowing dimly. It radiated something, some sort of energy Stanley could not describe but hated instantly. The air seemed too hot or too heavy, and he could barely breathe for the rage that had started up inside of his stomach. He could scarce stand to look at the machine. Everything about it felt wrong somehow. It should not be there. Stan knew it _shouldn’t_ be there.

* * *

  _IT’S NOT ENOUGH FOR F._

* * *

Stanford looked up at it for a moment, then turned to Stanley. Stanley realized that his mouth had fallen open, and closed it.

“I-”

All of this was in his brother’s _basement?_ All of this had been beneath the house this _whole time?_

“There is _nothing_ about this I understand.”

“It’s a trans-universal gateway.” Ford approached the machine, gesturing. “A punched hole through a weak spot in our dimension.”

 _Dimension?_ Stan thought, the gears in his head turning. Surely his brother had not actually tried to travel to other worlds?

“I created it to unlock the mysteries of the universe, but it could just as easily be harnessed for terrible destruction. That’s why I shut it down.”

Stan’s heart sunk. Had this been what Fiddleford had been rambling about? Was this what had consumed his brother?

“I hid my journals, which explain how to operate it.” Ford held out the book he’d been clutching. “When I came to, realized Bill was still about, of course I had to make sure that this one had not been found. I rushed down here before I came to your aid, which I must apologize for, Stanley. If anything had happened to you- I loathe to even think of it. But now, there’s only one journal left.”

Stanley took it. It was heavy, heavier than any book he had ever dared to hold, and emblazoned with gold. _Gold._ Where had Ford found _gold?_

“You are the only person I can trust to take it.” Stanley looked up at Ford, speechless. His eyes were haunted, _pleading._ “I have something to ask of you. Remember our plans to sail around the world on a boat?”

Stanley felt his grip on the book tighten, and a fire start up in his heart. A small smile began to pull at his mouth. So this was it. This was _it,_ they would wreck this machine and get out of this town! This awful contraption, this monster that was poisoning his air would be _gone,_ they would do away with Bill or at least get away from him, and- surely, this was what Bill had wanted? What use could Bill have of Ford once this thing was gone? They would get out of Gravity Falls together, heroes if only to themselves. All would be right again.

“Take this book, get on a boat, and sail as far away as you can!” Ford stalked toward the machine. “To the edge of the earth. Bury it where no one can find it!”

* * *

  _“You will not. Your life is yours to make, Stanley, make it far away from mine. We are no longer brothers; Stanford Pines is a different person than he once was. We both know, Stan, that you are neither suited for my work nor my life. You cannot aid me and I would not wish it. I have not forgotten and I do not wish to share my future.”_

* * *

Stanford turned and folded his hands behind him, apparently stewing in thought. Stanley squeezed the book and felt the heat inside of him growing. Now Ford would not even look at him?

“That’s it?” Stanley called. “You finally decide to tell me _something_ about all this shit that’s going on, and then you just tell me to leave? This is the first time you’ve even tried to see me in ten years and it’s just to tell me to get as far away from you as possible?”

Ford turned. “ _Stanley_ , you don’t understand what we’re I’m against, what I’ve been through-”

“No, _you_ don’t understand what I’ve been through! I’ve been to prison in _three_ different countries. I once had to chew my way out of the trunk of a car! Have you ever slept in a Hooverville, Ford? How about a hobo camp? You think _you’ve_ got problems? And where were you? Living it up in your fancy house in the woods, hoarding your college and grant money because you only cared about yourself!”

_You’ve never been enough for him-_

“I’m _selfish?”_ Ford repeated. “I’m selfish? You _know_ what I’ve been through! Bill’s-”

“Don’t you Bill me, I’ve been here too! I’ve seen Bill too! Hell, he almost killed me just yesterday! And on top of it all I’ve had you and Mc-fucking-Gucket squabbling over whatever _this_ is, and I’ve had to watch my own brother get carted off!” Stan was fuming now. “Bill- or should I say _Bea?-_ the girl _you_ went after, the crazy demon _you_ went after because _why_? Because no one’s smart enough for you? Because you’re better than everyone?”

“Stanley, how can you possibly say that to me after all of this? After what _you’ve_ done?”

“What _I’ve_ done?” Stanley challenged.

“You cost me my future, Stanley!”

“Oh, what, because you _wouldn’t_ have gone science-crazy in the middle of goddamn Oregon if I hadn’t-”

“My dream _school!_ I’m giving you the chance to do the first worthwhile thing in your life and you won’t even listen!”

“I guess it doesn’t matter that I saved your life then, huh! Did you forget about that? Did you forget that the only reason you’re here right now is because of me? Cause I showed up on your doorstep and saw you locked up in your room? What would you have done without me, Ford, what?”

“You’re right!” Ford shouted. “Maybe I _wouldn’t_ have gotten into this mess if I didn’t need to work twice as- it doesn’t matter! It doesn’t _matter,_ Stanley, I don’t care about any of that but if you would just listen-”

“No, you listen to this!” Stanley roared. “You want me to get rid of this book? I’ll get rid of this book?” Stanford’s eyes widened hopefully, shining with desperation. Stanley felt as if his insides had all been set ablaze, and he dug his hand into his pocket. His hands found his only lighter and he pulled it out, flicking it on. “I’ll get rid of it right now!”

Ford reached forward to grab the book back. “No! You don’t understand-”

Stan yanked it back with so much force, Ford stumbled after it. “You said you wanted me to have it, I’ll do what I want with it!” He held the book over the lighter, about to touch it to the flame.

“My research!”

Ford lunged toward him, knocking Stan over. They both landed heavily on the floor. Stanford was up immediately, but Stan stuck out his leg and he sprawled onto the floor before he could grab the book. Stanley raced past him to grab it.

“Stanley, give it back!”

Ford was on his feet again faster than Stanley could have anticipated. He collided with him, and they both fell back into the other room. Ford elbowed Stanley onto something in the back, what Stanley now realized was even more machinery- Jesus, how big was this thing? His blood was rushing in his ears now, and the world was suddenly far too bright.

“You want it back, you’re gonna have to try harder than that!” He pushed Ford back and fell on top of him, pinning him to the ground. The world was flashing now, the lights spinning. Stan sat up and pulled on the book as hard as he could. “You left me behind, you jerk, it was supposed to be us forever! I never wanted any of this, you ruined my life!”

“You ruined your own life!” Ford screamed, and lifted his leg to kick Stan off. Before Stanley could prepare himself, his foot collided with Stanley’s stomach and threw him back into the wall and onto the glowing hieroglyphic.

A bolt of searing pain ripped through Stanley’s entire body the moment he connected with it. Everything was on _fire,_ he was _burning_ , it was like thousands of needles had been shoved into every inch of his skin but _worse_ somehow, like they had been left in overnight and then pulled out, like someone had poured gasoline onto him and then set him ablaze, worse even than the day before- he was screaming, he did not try to move, or to blink, this was _real_ pain, this was happening to _him-_

And then it was over, and he fell forward, gasping for air. His hand flew to his shoulder. The pain had died out now, everywhere but there. His fingers found his own skin, still sizzling, his shirt burnt away entirely. He could hear Ford’s voice swimming in the distance.

 _“Stanley, oh my gosh, I’m so sorry-_ Are you alright?”

Stanley lurched upward and threw his full body weight into his fist, the hit so strong it sent Ford staggering back into the abyss of his basement, dropping the journal and then colliding with a lever in the floor before he collapsed. He stood as Stanley advanced on him, still clutching his aching shoulder. Stanley could barely even open his right eye but there was something stewing inside him, smoke, he was sure, and it was pouring out of his mouth and nose like breath.

“Some brother you turned out to be,” he growled, and Ford’s machine lit up behind him like nine candles. He lifted the journal, growing ever closer to his brother. “You care more about your dumb mysteries then your family. Then you can have them!”

He shoved the book into Ford as violently as he could. Ford fell back into the air, gripping the journal tightly, eyes screwed shut.

He stopped falling.

Stanley’s heart stopped. His brother had not fallen. He was hovering in the air, his coat flapping in the sudden wind as he flung his arms out for support. Ford gasped.

“Whoa, whoa, hey! What’s going on?” Stanley dashed forward after Ford, reaching out as he drifted higher into the air, and back toward his machine. “Hey, Stanford!”

“Stanley, help me!” he screamed, glancing at the light roaring behind him, now spinning in a circle.

“What do I do?” Stan yelled. “Ford?!”

He reached out as far as he could but it wasn’t _enough._ Ford turned to face the machine. “Stanley!” He was too high in the air to even dream of reaching now, directly in front of the thing’s open face. He turned back to Stan, eyes wide and more desperate than ever, as his coat flaps disappeared into the churning light. He hurled the journal to him. His legs were gone now, and his shoulders. His eyes darted to the dizzying light and then back to him. “Stanley, do something!”

There was a screech. The light flashed, blindingly. Stanley saw nothing but pure white for several long moments, and then there was only darkness. When he opened his eyes the light was steady and there was no brightness behind the portal. He threw himself upwards.

“Stanford?!”

Stanley’s eyes went upward to this strange window to whatever world his brother had been pulled into. Something soared through the air and he dove forward to catch them.

It was Stanford’s glasses.

* * *

_I went to his home to ask for comment on the blinding light, to no avail. I tried shouting questions about the strange light and their correlation to our minor hiccup in gravity, but the house seemed deserted- Stanford Pines did not open the door. I noticed a curious fire pit that seemed to have been added to the lawn. Bonfires, I will remind you, are illegal. More to come on this dangerous criminal._

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well... happy new year, guys!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> enjoy this fic's official playlist: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL3plHgKghKM_DH4Fy4uJ442ncRYRuEHbE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my goodness, i can't believe this day has come. i remember sitting down to start writing this (back when i thought it was a one shot) and all the things that have transpired since then... how exciting!!! how incredible!!!!!
> 
> Thank you so so much to all of you who have read, commented, left kudos and hits- you make my day each time you do so, and i love you with every fiber of my being, and that goes out to the future readers of this too!
> 
> here we finally have an epilogue to this strange story of two stans, and i hope i leave all the right questions unanswered and all the correct knots tied. but if you do want more, don't hesitate to let me know, and i'll see what i can do! a few things before the finale:  
> -since starting this story, i have applied to college, left a relationship that wasn't right for me, and more!  
> -in the future, you can expect a memory related ford au, more of my incredibly self-indulgent tmf series, and (i hope) a lot more gravity falls aus (i've been toying with a witch hunt one for nearly a year now!)  
> -some changes were made to the first chapter that are reflected here (nothing about the story, but i did some fun little things with quotes and formatting that broke my heart after i finished this chapter, and it might break yours too!)  
> -i hope the cipher i left at the end is correct because i coded it by hand and am always terrified i'll slip up on a letter...
> 
> now without further ado:

**XII. Epilogue**

* * *

  _There are horrors beyond life’s edge that we do not suspect, and once in awhile man’s evil prying calls them just within our range._

* * *

  **February, 1934**

Stanley wished he’d bothered with robbing McGucket. Ford’s food had finally run out, and he would need to go into town to get something, but every pocket he checked was more disappointing than the last.

_Maybe I can get Susan to lend me a hand,_ he thought desperately. _Hey, Sue, I know it’s been a few months, but… nah, she’s too clever for that._

Stanley decided to keep looking, but as usual, he ended up ignoring his hunger and going down to work in the basement.

Not long passed before he heard a knock.

By the time Stanley was upstairs, the guest was already in Ford’s kitchen.  She turned as he entered. She was a young woman, not far from his age, and something in her face struck him as familiar.

“Hello,” Stan said, his voice slow and suspicious. “Can I help you?”

She squinted at him. “Mr. Pines?”

“... Yeah?”

She stuck her hand straight out. “I’m Samantha McGucket.”

Stan shook her hand. “Alright.”

“I believe you know my husband?”

The dots connected, and realization dawned on Stan. “Yeah, sure. Fiddleford. Why’d you ask?”

Samantha pulled her hand back, picking at her cuticles. “I haven't heard from him in awhile.”

“Gee, I haven’t spoken to Fidds in a long time.” Stan glanced around. “Can I, uh, get you anything?”

“Oh, thank you.” Samantha picked a purse up from one of the chairs at the kitchen table and sat down. She must have put it down before Stan walked in.

“Sure, have a seat. I’ll put on a pot of coffee.” Stan might have been out of food, but he was inclined to remember the kindness her husband had showed him after a long journey. And besides, Ford had been overstocked on caffeine. He had _more_ than enough coffee. “You aren’t hungry, are you?”

“No, I ate on the train.”

That was good news.

“Have a good trip?” Stan asked awkwardly.

“Yes, it was- yes.”

“You from California?”

“For the last few years.”

“Times treating you alright?”

“I can’t complain,” Samantha said, then looked away. She seemed melancholy, and lost- where or how, Stanley could not say. She struck him as lonely. He furrowed his brow. Why hadn’t she heard from Fiddleford? _Why are you here?_ he thought, sparing her a glance. She was watching the door apprehensively.

At long last, the coffee was done. Stanley poured them two mugs. “Milk and sugar?”

“Please.”

Stan checked the fridge, then the icebox. The only bottle was half full and looked to be all the wrong colors. “Sorry, milk’s out.”

“That’s fine.”

He went to the counter to find the sugar. He opened the lid to scoop out her sugar and dug in his spoon. When he lifted it, he uncovered a small pack of ants. Stan slammed the lid back on the sugar pot.

“Are you alright?”

“Wouldn’t you know it? Outta sugar too.”

“It’s fine, Mr. Pines.”

“Please, just Stan’s okay. Here.” Stan handed her a mug, then lifted his own. “Welcome to Gravity Falls, Mrs. McGucket.”

“Thanks, cheers.” She lifted her mug but did not drink from it. Stan pulled back the other chair at the kitchen table and sat down his mug. He removed the book from the chair before sitting down.

“So what brings you to town?”

“It’s about my husband. And Samantha’s fine,” she added, flushing. “But- it’s about Fiddleford. You see, I was hoping you’d be able to- tell me about him. He always spoke of you highly.”

“Really?” Stan raised his eyebrows.

“You didn’t know?”

“Well, we parted on a bad note.” Stan raised his mug for a sip of coffee. Ford’s tastes had grown too dark for his liking, but he’d learned to force the black stuff down.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t-”

“It’s alright, you didn’t know.”

“Still, that’s a shame.” Samantha looked around searchingly. “When did you two last- have you kept in touch?”

“Not really. Haven’t seen him since last year, actually. We parted ways late December, ‘fore he moved back to California.”

“California?” Samantha repeated, her expression shifting to surprise.

“Yeah,” Stan nodded. “Last I talked to him he was when he was planning on moving back.”

“And that was in _December_?”

“Uh, yeah, why-” Stan frowned. Samantha looked horrified, her mouth falling open. “When’d you say you last talked to him?”

“... January,” she said quietly. She reached up to fix her hair, even though it was fine. “On- the first. It was on the first.”

“And you haven’t heard anything since then?”

She shook her head. “No. I haven’t.”

“Well. Crap.”

“Indeed,” she nodded and picked up her coffee. She took a tentative sip, then pulled out a packet of sugar from her pocket and poured it in. “You wouldn’t happen to have a spoon?”

“Uh, sure.” Stan stood and crossed over to the counter. The spoon he’d left in the sugar pot was probably crawling with ants. He pulled open the silverware drawer. Empty. He turned to the sink. Full. Dirty. “Uh, no, sorry.”

“A knife, maybe?”

Stan handed her a butter knife. Samantha stirred her coffee in silence, then laughed.

“Fidds said you were a mess,” she giggled, then had a cautious drink. “Much better. I’m sorry, it was really just too bitter for me. I’ve an awful sweet tooth.”

“Oh, it’s fine, tell you the truth I hate it too.”

She simpered. Stan sat back down across from her.

“Do you know where Fiddleford might have gone?” Samantha asked. “Since he- didn’t get back?”

Stan looked down into his coffee. “Dunno. Maybe he- got sidetracked.”

“My husband doesn’t _get_ sidetracked, Mr. Pines,” Samantha said shortly.

“Sorry, I just- maybe he took a detour or a shortcut or a wrong turn or something and got lost. Or maybe he got caught up in something.”

“Any idea what that might be?”

“I dunno, from what I’ve heard he was caught up in some- serious stuff. Over here.”

“What sort of stuff?”

Stan’s mind went first to Stanford, then the journal he’d found in McGucket’s room, and finally the monstrosity of a machine downstairs and the pages and pages he’d read warning him not to touch it.

“Serious stuff.”

Samantha sighed. “You have no clue what it might be?”

“Nah. But you know,” Stan stood. “We could always go check out his house.”

Samantha rose. “Yes, it sure seems to be the proper step. We’ll take my car.”

“You’ve got a car?”

“Yes.” Samantha wrinkled her nose. “No offense, Mr. Pines, but it may be in your interest to shower or shave.”

“What?” Stan glanced down at himself.

“At _least_ change your clothes.”

“Yeah, I- I’ll do that. Give me ten.”

Stan could not remember the last time he’d shaved. It had been before Gravity Falls, that was certain, but there was an old razor in the bathroom, so he gave himself as quick a shave he could, washed, and borrowed some of Ford’s clothes. He pulled on Ford’s ragged coat and several moments later, he was in Samantha’s car. She faced the road with a determined frown, gripping the steering wheel tight. She murmured thanks whenever Stanley offered up directions.

They reached the lake shortly.

McGucket’s house was no more welcoming now than when Stanley first saw it. Several signs had joined his first one, reading all sorts of nonsense. One said _“KEEPY OUTY!”_ Stanley might have laughed if he weren’t so put off.

All the windows in the house were dark. That couldn’t be a good sign. The gate was swinging open, so Stanley let himself in. Samantha followed him, her eyes wandering across the rubbish in the yard. Stanley wondered when McGucket had last cleaned up- it still stunk of death.

The crow on the fence cawed as he approached the door. The strange crossed out eye had been joined by others, each one bigger than the last. Stanley glanced at the chimney, hoping to see smoke, but the sky was empty.

He put his hand on the door, and it swung open.

“You don’t think- foul play?” Samantha grabbed Stanley’s arm. “Do you know anyone-”

“Maybe you should stay outside,” Stanley suggested. She narrowed her eyes.

“No, let’s look.”

She dragged him in, then dropped his arm. Stanley felt around for the light and flicked it on.

“Fidds?” Samantha called hopefully. There was no answer. “Should we search?”

“We can split up. I’ll check upstairs,” Stanley said, and made a beeline for the study. It was not locked.

The room was in shambles. Papers and books were strewn across the floor. The desk had collapsed against the wall and each drawer was open, spilling contents onto the floor. Few papers remained on the walls, and they were all indecipherable thanks to what must have been red paint. Someone had taken a brush to the walls and covered one with the shape of an eyed triangle, another with the crossed out eye, and the third with three horrible words-

_HE’S WATCHING YOU._

Reading them made Stanley want to vomit. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck beginning to rise, and looked around worriedly in case someone really did see him.

Stanley approached the desk cautiously and knelt. A bottle that stank of alcohol appeared to have fallen and shattered when it tipped, and a cup had spilled nearby. Stanley picked up a journal he recognized and opened to the first page. Fiddleford had scrawled over it.

_WAKE UP! WAKE UP! WAKE UP! WAKE UP! WAKE UP!_

Swallowing his dread, Stanley picked up another piece of paper. It had previously contained formulas, but now it seemed to read _YDVR MANE IS FJDDLEFDORD AND-_ Stanley’s heart sunk and he picked up another that said _VOTMSRIG IVSKRX OORY._ Stanley reread it, but the letters did not rearrange themselves, and he could only guess what Fiddleford was thinking when he wrote them.

Stanley stood up, supporting himself on the desk. Was this really Fiddleford’s doing, or was someone else behind it? But who could have possibly done this? Who would _want_ to?

_No one,_ Stan thought, but there was still a strange nagging in the back of his mind and a twist of worry in his heart.

He turned to go check the bedroom and stopped. That wall had been painted too.

* * *

_YOUR NAME IS FIDDLEFORD HADRON MCGUCKET_

_YOU WISH TO UNSEE WHAT YOU HAVE SEEN_

_YOUR NAME IS FIDDLEFORD HADRON MCGUCKET_

_YOU LOVE SAMANTHA_

_YOU LOVE TATE_

_YOU LOVE STayOUR NAME IS FIDDLEFORD HADRON MGCUKCTE_

_YOU LOVE SMAYOUR NAME_

_YOUR NAME_

_YOUR NAME_

_mcfiDDLEFgucORkETd_

* * *

Stanley brushed his fingers over the paint and swore under his breath. What the hell did it mean?

He left the study in a hurry. The air in it was too heavy to breathe, and the way it squeezed his throat made him feel as if he were suffocating. He shot a look toward the stairs as he left, then glanced back at the door. This was awful. It made him _feel_ awful. And he’d barely known Fiddleford. If Samantha saw it…

He shut the door. The lock clicked.

_I can just show her later if I need to_ , Stan reasoned as he went to check the guest room. It was just as he’d left it, so he went to the bedroom instead. The bed was made and the curtains were drawn. The only thing out of place was the frame on the floor. Stanley went to pick it up, then dropped it. The glass in the front had shattered, and he had cut his hand on it. Stanley cursed and shook his hand to stop the pain, staring at the picture as he did so. It was the one of Fiddleford and Samantha holding a child. He took it before setting the empty frame back up next to the photograph of the McGucket family.

_Where’s the kid?_ he wondered. Was the baby still in California? Were they even still a baby?

“Stan?” Samantha called.

Stan hurried downstairs. Samantha was in the sitting room, looking around in dismay. At a glance, it appeared fine, but further inspection revealed that several books had been strewn across the floor. Samantha pointed out one underneath the couch.

“This is absolutely insane,” she said helplessly. “Anything upstairs?”

Stan handed her the photo. She blinked at it, then wiped her eyes and tucked it into her coat.

“Why don’t we check around town?” Stan said. She nodded.

“Do you have any idea who we could ask for information?” Samantha asked him. “Anyone in town, someone who follows current events or- I don’t know, their townsfolk? Maybe someone who writes for the newspaper!”

“The newspaper’s shit,” Stan told her. “The guy who writes it has no clue what he’s doing. But… I may know someone else.”

He directed Samantha to the Greasy Diner, then spent a few minutes in the car worrying about his hair.

“Sorry,” he told Samantha. “I just haven’t seen her in a while. Don’t want her to think I’m sleazing out on her.”

“It’s fine,” Samantha said sympathetically, though she looked cross. Stan finally turned up his collar to hide his overgrown hair and stepped out of the car.

The Greasy Diner was more crowded then Stan had ever seen it. That wasn’t saying much, but it still felt packed. The chatter seemed to drop as he entered. The hulking lumberjack in the corner glared at him, and a couple in the corner looked at him with wide, shining eyes. The man gave him an eerily knowing smile, and the woman looked terrified. An old woman turned to look at him disapprovingly.

Stanley looked longingly at the pies on display, and then up at the woman behind the counter. Susan had his back to him, making a fresh pot of coffee.

“Hey, uh, Susan?” he called, and a few more people seemed to go silent. She turned and looked him up and down.

She smiled. “Can I get you anything?” she asked, setting down the coffee pot.

Stanley opened his mouth, but Samantha stepped in front of him.

“Information. I’m Samantha McGucket, ma’am, glad to meet you.”

Susan reached over the counter and shook her hand. “Susan Wentworth, honey, hi!”

“He said you’d be the one to ask about someone in town.”

“Oh, sure! Ask away!”

“Fiddleford McGucket,” Samantha said. Susan’s smile faded.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh, _him._ Oh, you must be his-”

“Wife, ma’am, and I’d really like to know where he is.”

“Well,” Susan said. “He’s- well, he’s- across the street- a few blocks-”

Samantha frowned. “What?”

“In the… junkyard. He lives in the junkyard.”

Samantha dropped Susan’s hand. “He- lives there?”

Susan nodded. Samantha turned and made a dash for the door. “Thank you, Stanford, you’ve been an enormous help, and thanks, Susan, I have to go find-”

Her voice cut off as the door shut and she sprinted across the street. Stan watched her go, and then started. She had thanked _Stanford_.

“Stanford?” Susan repeated, then burst into a grin. “Hey, wait a minute! You’re Stan’s brother! You’re that mysterious science guy who lives in the woods!”

Everyone in the diner was looking at Stan now. He took a step back. “No, you’ve-”

A man in the back leapt up. “I’ve heard wild rumors about what goes on in that Shack!” he yelled, in what had to be the most ghastly voice Stan had ever heard. It sounded somewhat familiar. “You must’ve been out, Mr. Pines, I’m-”

“Yeah!” A shorter, darker man by the door called. “Mysterious lights and spooky experiments!”

An old man put his arm around the old woman, who looked less disapproving. “Gosh, I’d pay anything to see what kind of shenanigans you get up to in there.”

“Me too!” Susan beamed at Stan. “Do you ever give tours?”

“No,” Stan shrunk back. “No, really, I-”

He looked down at the pies on display, and his stomach growled. Stanley sighed, then nodded. “Y-Yes, actually, I-”

“Tours!” The smiling man leaped up, slamming his head onto his table. Everyone in the diner jumped, his wife the highest of all, and turned to look at him. “Yes he _does!_ How much?!”

Everyone looked back at Stan in delight.

“Fifty...” Stanley started, and the man gestured to go higher. “A buck-” He gave him a thumbs up, but Stan decided to take it another step. “No, no- dollar fifty a person!”

Everyone looked at him in surprise, and Stanley wondered if he shouldn’t have gone so high.

They all cheered.

The smiling man hurried over to grab him by the shoulder. “It’s well worth it, folks, I assure you! You remember what Missus Cutebiker said, don’t you? Strange lights? Wait’ll you see what’s inside!”

Several people began opening their bags on the spot. A few were already counting out the money and offering it out.

“Hey,” Stan said. “Thanks, pal. What’d you say your name was?”

The man shook his hand. “Bud Gleeful, pleasure’s all mine, sir, all mine. Just helping a fellow entrepreneur out. Don’t you worry about it, you’ll make up the favor someday.” Bud smiled again, showing large white teeth and pink gums, and Stanley was reminded of a venomous snake.

“Uh, yeah,” he agreed reluctantly. “Maybe I will.”

“Now, what did you say your name was?”

“Stan- uh-”

“That’s _Stanford Pines!”_ screeched the man with the terrible voice. “That’s the man of mystery! That’s Stanford Pines!”

Stan furrowed his brow, then nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “Sure, that’s me. The man of mystery.”

* * *

  _“That’s okay, kid. I probably wouldn’t have believed me either.”_

Grunkle Stan, _A Tale of Two Stans_

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UIBOL ZPV.
> 
> BOE CD DBSFGVM, IF'T TUJMM PVU UIFSF.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! more to come soon, I promise- I'm so pumped.


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